Mr & Mrs Johnson
by Penelope Grace
Summary: (Abandoned.) Skyeward AU of Mr. & Mrs. Smith. There will be Shield and Hydra. Grant Ward is John Smith. Skye, Jane Smith. Skye and Grant are two normal civilians married to each other. But like all married couples, they have problems. Secretly, they are two assassins who are unaware of each other. But when they are sent after each other... It's all going to burn.
1. Session 1

**Hello, everyone. I have come out of the NaNoWriMo hole I have forced myself into. So thanks to .com (and a Mr. & Mrs. Smith + Skyeward post, which involved Ward saying, "Your hair is hideous"), I'm writing this fanfic. Yes, we'll be sticking close to the movie. Pretty close, but… There will be some differences. **

**The last Agents of Shield episode I've watched completely is "A Wanted (In)Human." So I'm going to completely ignore that Andrew is Lash. As far as I know, he's alive. Just without the transformation, the quick healing, and the energy blasts.**

 **Disclaimer: As usual, I do not own any tv shows, books, or movies… The list goes on. If I do own Agents of Shield, Grant Ward would have a redemption arc. But no. No. Nope, nope, nope.**

 **So here we go.**

* * *

Andrew Garner, ex-husband of Melinda May, looks over the two files and sighs. Daisy "Skye" Johnson, who he has met only once. Grant Douglas Ward, who he has never met before. Wife and husband. He glances up at the two briefly arguing over the exact year they've met for the first time.

"Five," says Ward, shaking his head. He sits on Andrew's left, and the slightest scruff on his jaw hangs over chin like a shadow. He crosses his legs over another and then stares at Daisy. "It's five years ago."

"Six," tries Daisy, rolling her eyes.

Raising his hand, Andrew sighs again. It is like handling two children who just want to knock each other's heads into the sand. Except they are two grownups who probably wants to kill each other… Sometimes. "You've met each other five or six years ago." He pauses for effect. "On a scale of one to ten, how happy are you as a couple?"

"Eight," answers Daisy, her smile sure and confident.

Andrew turns to Ward.

He furrows his eyebrows. "Ten being very happy or totally, undoubtedly miserable?"

"Just respond instinctively," Andrew replies, pressing his hand against his forehead. With his brown-skinned hand, he takes a quick sip from a glass of water and gently place it back on the table.

Ward glances at Daisy. "Ready?"

"Ready."

Together, they answer, "Eight."

"How often do you have sex?"

Daisy and Ward glance at each other. Andrew notes their paleness and their lack of a conclusive answer. From their very expressions, it is too clear that they haven't had sex in a _long_ time.

No wonder why they came to him. It's probably Daisy who dragged Ward along. Forcibly dragged him along.

He listens to their conversations but interrupts when it gets too out of hand. He waves his hands and says, "Alright. How did you two meet?"

"Well…"

Ward glances at his wife. "I think it was in… the Middle East?"

"Egypt," she specifies.

"Five years ago."

"Six."

"Right. Five or six years ago."

Andrew quickly scribbles a few notes down in Grant Ward's file. Then he does the same for Daisy. He leans back and begins to listen.


	2. Beginning

It is a horrible tourist spot turned warzone, and Skye can't quite forget it. She quickly takes note of the fire in the distance and the screaming police raiding homes. It is chaotic. Too chaotic, but like all chaos, it can be used very well to her advantage. She picks up the pace and opens the door to her hotel. She casually shoves down the knife in her pocket.

"Someone killed the Colonel," says a bellboy, leaning against the bar. He wipes down the bar with a towel and coughs into his hand.

After scanning her surroundings and clearing it, she blinks and turns towards the conversation.

"Mudrik Zaher?" says the man, dressed in sunglasses, white shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. He casually takes a drink from his shot of vodka, uncaring of the disaster coming towards here. "Someone killed him?"

"The police are rounding up single tourists. Are you alone?"

She turns her head to the side, and in bursts a few officers wearing dark bush jackets. They quickly take note of her, but she doesn't panic. No, she never panics. She moves towards the man with the vodka.

"You two together?"

The vodka man and Skye nod.

She can't resist the slightest breath of relief when the police officer moves on. Moving closer to the vodka guy, she grips his hand and says, "I think we better get out of here."

Without a word said, he leaves his vodka on the bar.

* * *

Grant Ward follows her. He doesn't bother touching the gun, but the comfortable weight is familiar. He watches her soft fingers, marveling at the way they unlock her hotel room. He strolls right in and then closes the door behind her. He relaxes slightly, but he remains on guard.

"I'm Skye," she says, smiling. She reaches her hand out, and he takes it slowly. Her dark brown eyes sparkle with delight, and her smile lightens him in a way he hasn't feel in a long time.

"Grant," he replies. He runs his eyes over her, noting the conservative white blouse and simple pants. He listens for any accents, only to find American through and through. Her dark hair hangs long over her shoulders and reach the middle of her back. For a brief moment, he wonders what it'll be like to run his hands through her hair.

Looking up at him through her lashes, she gives him a look that is coy, mysterious, and seductive. But it is her brightness and easiness that draws him to her in the end.

* * *

He takes her to a bar. It isn't the kind of bar that most people in Egypt would be happy to go to. It is one of those bars that is careful to do business, that is still modest compared to the United States, and that is slightly private and anonymous. They trade a tequila bottle between them, talking and laughing.

"I used to work at the Peace Corps," she tells him, smiling.

He can easily imagine it. A brown-haired girl with shiny eyes and a penchant for laugher can easily brighten up the darkest of all places. She swirls the bottle, swallows a few gulps, and hands it back to Grant.

"So… What do you do?" Skye inquires.

"I came here to study Egyptian architecture," he says, which isn't even a lie. "I have a client of mine who wants to build something that is similar to what the Ancient Egyptians used. But with a touch of modern days."

"Like pyramids?"

He cocks his head to the side. "Not quite. More like the temples of the Egyptian gods." A pause. "But with the police raids, it doesn't seem very possible. Good thing I got a few pictures. So what are you doing here?"

"Visiting a few of my best friends who moved here." She flips her hair over the other side of her shoulder, and a stray curl falls over her eyes.

He resists the urge to correct it. But it is so tempting.

The conversations keep going, and he easily relaxes in a way he hasn't in a very long time. With her, there is no describing that relief he feels. He laughs more than he ever did in his entire life. There are no strings attached to him here, and he doesn't have to force himself to say things he doesn't want to say. Or do things he doesn't want to do.

"The Avengers? Greatest heroes of the Earth?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know about them. They did save the world, but… Who are they? We don't know anything about him. Black Widow, Iron Man, Hulk, Captain America… The list goes on."

"Which one is your favorite?" she asks.

Grinning genuinely, he shakes his head. "What's yours?"

A few hours later, she takes him back to her room. What starts with the simplest of goodnight kisses turns into something much more fiery and passionate. Somewhere along the way, he loses his shirt. Her blouse unbuttons, and they find their way into her bed. In the back of his mind, he thanks himself for having the foresight of disposing the damning pistol that used to be in his pants.


	3. Carnival

He calls her up once he's back in the United States. The problem with his organization is that they are short-staffed in his specific department. Sometimes, he finds himself traveling around the world more frequently than ever before. But once new specialists are recruited, he pulls himself off the field and tells Daniel Whitehall that he's taking two weeks off.

Whitehall doesn't take it too well. But he reluctantly allows one week and orders him to come back "feeling better."

"A carnival?" she says skeptically. "You want to take me out to a carnival?"

"Come on, Skye. It'll be fun," he replies, smiling. He casually drives on Freeway 5, and part of him feels so light that he is sure he could float away. "Haven't you ever been to a carnival before? It's one of the best places in the world."

Also, it is one of the places he never actually worked at.

"Fine. Where is it?"

He rattles off the address and promises to meet her at the front gates. When the call ends, he finds himself still smiling.

* * *

His hands wrap around Skye's shoulders, and she laughs as Grant tells her yet another one of his funny anecdotes of his friends. It involves a friend named Antoine, who apparently left Grant's company because of creative differences. She has a feeling that he's giving her the simplest of all details, but she doesn't really mind. She lets blue cotton candy settle in her mouth and melt. If Melinda May sees her now, she will scowl at the candy.

It's probably not good for her body. But hey, she deserves a little vacation.

"And step right up! Ladies and gentlemen, try your luck!" calls out a barker. He stands in front of a firing range, and Skye can't resist looking at Grant.

"Should we?" she says, raising her eyebrow. "I want to try."

* * *

He glances at the firing range, then smiles at her, and nods. "Okay." He peels away a five dollar bill from his wallet and watches her pick up the gun timidly. He grins broadly as she pulls the trigger, the gun's recoil nearly forcing her hands to let it go. She tightens her grip and fires two more times. All of them misses.

Winking at her, he takes the gun from her hands. He tests it. He frowns slightly. It's an ounce too light, but he can work with this. He fires twice. Hits the target, right in the center. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notes her surprise. But…

He is Grant Ward, civilian. A private American citizen who travels around the world to take inspiration from the ancients. He owns a construction company with its own architecture firm, and he designs and builds structures for very rich clients with more money than they will ever use in their lifetime. He certainly knows how to shoot a gun from his days at his family's hunting cabin, but he doesn't know it that well.

So he misfires the last shot and winces when it misses by a single inch. The specialist in him hates missing a single bullet, but for this, he knows he has to.

He wins a small but also adorable stuffed animal. A brown-black puppy. It distantly reminds him of a dog he used to know and love ten years ago before he gave it up for the animal shelter.

* * *

Skye holds the small puppy in her hands, but a spark of competition arises in her. She passes the stuffed animal and says, "I want to go again."

Grant hands the old man another bill.

She picks up the gun, tests its weight, and fires five shots. It is too easily to adjust to this fake gun thanks to her job at Shield.

Thirty seconds later, she is holding a huge polar bear in her arms and winks at Grant. Smiling mischievously, she notes, "It must have been beginner's luck." She then trades the polar bear for the puppy and grips it in her hands. "They're cute."

"They are all yours."

She laughs, but when she sees a young girl around twelve or thirteen with longing eyes at the white polar bear in Grant's hands, she stops by her and hands the polar bear to her. She squeals with delight and tells her mother about the polar bear.

"That's kind of you."

"One random act of kindness at a time," she says, curling closer to Grant. Together, they walk through the carnival and play for the entire day. May is going to kill her for missing a day of training, but this… This is very much worth it. She is sure of that.

He nods, but he seems haunted.

She stops. "What? Did I say something wrong?"

"I don't exactly do the same things as you. One random act of kindness at a time," he admits, looking slightly sheepish. His dark eyes speak of several demons, but she isn't quite sure where those demons came from. "Most of the time, I'm very much absorbed into my work. When I have free time, I spend it with my friends."

It's very strange, but… Somehow, his confession endears him more to her.

"Yeah," she agrees, her eyes sweeping across the crowds of screaming children and laughing families. A pang appears in her stomach, and she stuffs it down to the abyss of her mind. She doesn't need it right now. "I'm exactly the same way. My work at a computer security firm doesn't allow a lot of room for kindness. Most of the time, we just build software and programs. We ensure the servers are safe from malware, and we kill viruses, Trojan horses, and worms. I try in my free time to do nice things for people. Cheer them up. But hey, it's never too late to start doing nice acts."

Then they turn their attentions to a makeshift basketball court. Grant takes a few shots, and thanks to his giant-like height, he makes most of it in. Skye, she has to work a bit harder. She stretches herself and jumps. When she makes a shot into the basket, he takes her by the cheeks and kisses her on the lips. It is nothing compared to what they did in Egypt, but it's heated and searing as always.

* * *

 **Yes, there is a lot of parallels here. Grant Ward is John Smith. Skye is Jane Smith. Eddie is Antoine Triplett (yay, he's alive here!). Andrew Garner is the marriage counselor. And there will be a few more familiar faces coming up. Thank you all for having the time to read this fanfic.**

 **Also, I have noted that Skye is an Inhuman. I have already mentioned the Avengers in this fic. How many of you guys want Skye and Ward to be Inhumans? Quake and Hellfire, respectfully.**


	4. Friends

Antoine Triplett aims at Grant's face. Grant manages to block his nasty fist in time, and they both take a step back. They calculate each other's strengths and weaknesses, watching for a way to bring each other down. Triplett is a mercenary, and he keeps up with the business they're in by gossiping with Grant.

Grant doesn't mind. Before he left the company, Antoine Triplett was one of the best in the business. He's another specialist like Grant, but after what happened in Calgary, no one really wants to work with him again. And what happened in Calgary isn't really his fault. It's only by pure luck he was outed by the CIA. But Trip does have some vengeful ex-girlfriends in the closet…

"Slow down," says Trip, shaking his head. "You have known this girl, Skye, for about… six weeks or so? Come on. That's too fast."

Grant shakes his head. "She's awesome. She's funny. She's cute."

"Sounds like a cinnamon bun," notes Trip, circling Grant. "Looks like a cinnamon bun. But is she actually a cinnamon bun?"

Grant relaxes his guard, raising his hands. He quickly adjusts the straps of his black boxing glove. "Get off of Tumblr, Trip." Another pause. "But she is a great shot with a gun."

"So looks like a cinnamon bun but could actually kill you?"

* * *

At the gym in Manhattan, Skye and Jemma Simmons run together on their own treadmills. Sweating through her purple tank top, Jemma pulls her earbuds out. "So what does he do?" she says, panting hard.

"I'm telling you he's perfect. Construction. He owns his own construction company," answers Skye. She pushes a button, and the treadmill slows to a walk. She wipes at her forehead with a towel and then reaches up to tie all of her hair into a ponytail. Part of her wants to cut it, but the other part of her can't wait for it to grow a little longer. Maybe she could try one of those hairstyles Kerry Washington has. Then she could cut it.

* * *

"A computer security firm," he answers, blocking a nasty left hook from Trip. "She works on Wall Street. Lives in New York, just like us. But she travels a lot. Her firm has offices spread around the world. She doesn't talk much about work, but it's good. No questions, no demands."

* * *

"What about sex?" asks Simmons, her English accent popping out once again. She pushes a red button. The treadmill slows to a crawl. She wags her eyebrow. "Come on. Give me the details."

"Really good. But it's not just about the sex."

* * *

Grant and Trip hike up the mountain, and out in the distance, he can see Mt. Whitney as beautiful as ever. He quickly stops for a moment, taking a swig out of his bottle.

Staring at the lazy hue of the sun, he says, "I look at her, and I feel like… I know everything about her. No secrets, nothing."

He could remember the days of sleeping in. His company is starting to gain more power, more stuff, and more supporters. It means he doesn't need to be on call as frequently as before. He could spend a lot more time with Skye, and that is more important. He loves those days where he stays in their bed all day and just sleep with her.

He only feels peace. Contentment. Happiness.

"Aren't you scared?" asks Trip. "Remember my old disaster with my ex-girlfriend in Cancun? Horrible. Pure horror. I have found out that there are only two females in the world who love me, and that is my grandmother and my mother."

Grant rolls his eyes. "You can't blame her that much. You kept on disappearing on her. Five times! Five times in Cancun over a two day period. She ran off and took your money. So what?"

"She stranded me in Cancun!" Trip shakes his head. "Cancun! She"—Trip sighs, pulling out his knife and glancing at the agent hanging by her fingers on the edge of the cliff—"abandoned me."

"She didn't know what you do."

"Are you going to tell Skye what you do?"

Grant's eyes widen. He isn't sure about that, either. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a length of rope. He tosses it down to the agent below. Then he pulls out a nail and hammers it into the rock. He secures the rope, and once he is satisfied, he says, "Try it!"

"It is risky," says Trip. "Having a relationship."

Grant shakes his head and pulls up the petite agent. "But once you know, you know. I'm saying that she's definitely it."

Then a searing pain at his jaw breaks out. He doesn't bother pressing it, but he glares at the agent he just rescued. He demands, "What is that for?"

After tearing off the black ski mask on her face, Kara folds her arms over her chest. She shakes away the sweaty dark hair out of her eyes. "That was for being late." Then she slaps him again in the face. With thinly veiled satisfaction, she adds, "And that one is for not telling me about her. How could you not mention that you have a girlfriend?"

He raises his hands in surrender. "You are a hard one to reach. Especially with those signal jammers in North Korea. How did you even get back to the United States?"

"Long story," she replies. Then she notices Trip. She smiles at him and holds out her hand. "Antoine Triplett, I assume. Nice to finally put a face to that name." Then she glances down the path and then stares at the cliff. Casually, Kara asks, "Please tell me that we are going to jump down instead of walking."

Grant silently hands her a black backpack. "BASE jumping. Afraid of heights?"

Kara snorts. "As if. You go first."

He glances at Triplett and then pulls out a smaller backpack from his bag. He straps it on and looks down the cliff. He turns his head and says, "Hey, Trip, Kara. I forgot to tell you guys something."

"What?" He raises his eyebrow.

"I'm getting married!" he yells.

"You're crazy," mutters Trip. He then, with his leg, kicks Grant off the cliff. He turns to Kara and says something Grant is too far away to hear.

He lets himself fall. Then he pulls the tag.


	5. Wedding

She fans herself in the face. Wedding day. It's her wedding day. She can't believe it. She has never let herself dream something of this, but with Grant… She finds herself thinking the impossible as possible. Simmons quickly adjusts the sheer veil and nods with a small smile. Raising her eyebrow, she asks, "Ready?"

Turning away from her cell phone and resisting the urge to check her emails for any updates at the company, Skye breathes in. Then out. She stares at the mirror, views the gentle layer of makeup on her face, and smiles to herself. She is about to marry the man who she loves beyond reason. Director Coulson has approved of him, after a very thorough background check. Everything is clear, and there is nothing wrong with Grant Douglas Ward. When he proposed to her at the carnival, she instantly said yes. Without a single moment of hesitation.

It's perfect.

"Ready," she answers, a smile that isn't even plastered on her face. It's a true smile, and it's a reflection of what she really feels. Elation. Happiness. And bliss. Bliss, most of all.

"Are you sure?" asks Simmons. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, flipping her curls over her shoulder. "I know I only met Grant once, but I feel like, as the maid of honor, I should have saw him a few more times than I already have."

"I'm sure. I'm ready."

And she is.

* * *

"I take back anything bad I've said about your future wife," says Trip, shaking his head. He quickly adjusts the square in his breast pocket and pat his pants for the rings. Once he finds it, he nods with satisfaction. "I admit it. You got yourself a good lady. Better not lose her."

"I won't," replies Grant, his voice confident. He makes his way out of the dressing room with Trip, and they make their way to the altar. He finds his grandmother in the crowd, and she gives him a bright smile. His younger brother, Thomas, sits next to Gamsie and mockingly poses as a scared chicken. He flaps his arms for a good measure.

He rolls his eyes. He won't leave. He won't abandon Skye.

Then the song comes on. "Here Comes the Bride." Everyone stands up and watches the approaching bride dressed in a flowing white wedding gown.

* * *

Skye walks alone up to the altar. It's a shame that there is some problems going on with Shanghai, because if there isn't any, Phil Coulson would be here to walk her down the aisle and give her away to Grant Ward. Simmons walks carefully ahead of Skye, her paces measured. She finds Melinda May in the pews, and then her eyes find Grant's. She runs her eyes over his body.

Notch lapels, smart suit. Side vents, from what she is able to see. A nice milky white pocket square, and his chiseled jaw is to drool for. Angular and clean-shaven. His hair is neatly styled, and his height seems imposing even from twenty feet away.

And oh, boy.

Why didn't she get married sooner?

The expression in his eyes makes her feel so special and different. Elated, somewhat. But there is something here, and she knows its name. Love. She loves Grant Ward, and she will undoubtedly never regret this decision.

She reaches the altar, and she listens to the words of the officiant. She scans the wedding for any of her enemies, but there are none. Her eyes land on Antoine Triplett, and she smiles at one of the funny stories Grant told her—the one about his ex-girlfriend that was abandoned in Cancun. Then she turns to Grant, unable to resist the urge to grin cheerfully at him. Part of her wants the officiant to hurry up and skip over the lines.

The other part of her knows she must do this slow. Have an official wedding. Simmons, Morse, and even Grant's elderly grandmother would kill her if the wedding is over too quickly.

"Dearly beloved," says the officiant, "we are gathered here today in the presence of these witnesses, to join Grant Douglas Ward and Daisy Skye Johnson in matrimony commended to be honorable among all; and therefore is not to be entered into lightly but reverently, passionately, lovingly and solemnly. Into this—these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together—let them speak now or forever hold their peace."

Not to her surprise, no one speaks.

Then it's time for her to read her vows.

She looks at Grant, and then she says those words from heart. "I, Daisy Skye Johnson, take you, Grant Douglas Ward, as my husband, for the better or worse. I will always love you, in sickness or health, on good days and bad days, and for all of my days and beyond. Storms may come, but as a good friend always says, the sun will always rise tomorrow."

His lips quirk at the small reference to _Annie_. It's one of the first plays she has ever saw, and Skye connects so well to the red-haired orphan.

After a lot of words said, the officiant finally says, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

A cameraman they hired takes a picture of the altar, but she doesn't care. She reaches for Grant, and Grant reaches for her. They kiss, more deeply than what is respectful at a Catholic church. She loses herself in Grant, and she doesn't care. Not a single bit. The officiant subtly coughs, and they break apart.

Another flash from the camera. The newlyweds poses with the best man and the maid of honor. Trip is smiling broadly while Simmons slightly hides behind Skye. She doesn't blame her. After all, Simmons accidently got herself on the CIA's radar. But she still smiles when the occasion calls for it. Jemma Simmons shares a photo with Skye, and then Skye and Grant take dozens and dozens of photos. They escape the wedding by a rented limo, and they have their honeymoon in Brazil.

Time moves too fast, and it seems to be only seconds when it's actually years flying by. And like a rock wearing down by the weather, the relationship of Grant Ward and Skye Johnson change. Not for the better, but for the worse.

* * *

 **Guys! I seriously need to know whether or not I should add in Inhumans. Come on! I already added the Avengers. But should I add Inhumans? Send me private messages or leave your answer in reviews. Come on! I totally need to know this!**


	6. Domesticity

**Five or six years later.**

* * *

Every day, Grant Ward has a routine. He gets up at six o'clock in the morning, brushes his teeth in the bathroom, and goes outside to pick up the newspaper. His wife stays in bed until six thirty. He makes himself a neat cup of coffee and pours orange juice into a glass for Skye. He puts bread in the toaster and quietly prays that Skye doesn't cook. But she does.

She is a horrible cook.

He reads through the newspaper and finds some interesting articles. But nothing that is out of the ordinary. He looks through the world news. Iran-US nuclear deal. A lot of things about the ISIS. Some attack in Paris. Something about Obama. Presidential candidates for the 2016 election. Mexican government under fire. And there is a highlight on human trafficking.

He sets it down, and he listens to Skye cooking. He silently hopes that she doesn't burn anything. He continues drinking from his mug of coffee and then heads upstairs to dress for work.

* * *

She sets the chicken in the oven. It isn't her best work, but from her days on the street, she knows how to be homeless. She knows how to make delicious food out of canned tomatoes. But she doesn't know how to make things from scratch. But she tries. She reads cookbooks, and when the food gets very frustrating, she stabs a knife at it.

Then she quietly hopes that Grant doesn't notice the cut. It's too precise and too sharp for a normal housewife.

* * *

At the breakfast table, they talk. It's pleasant, yes. But Grant feels like there is something missing. Something has gone wrong over the years. Some part of him is gone.

"What do you think of Dr. Garner?" she asks.

Thinking of the psychologist that is well-dressed with a fitting shirt and coolheaded, Grant shrugs. "He seems nice. Has good manners."

"His office is across town."

"The appointment is at 4 pm, so I'll have to leave the office early to avoid rush hour," he says, nodding. "I'll see you then."

"See you then."

Grant and Skye have his first session with Dr. Garner. It's a strange session, but he knows that Dr. Garner is the ex-husband of Skye's old friend. He doesn't really mind. Dr. Garner has a lot of credentials a mile long. He teaches Psychology 101 at a nearby university on the weekdays. A nice man through and through. Nothing special, nothing suspicious. Nothing outstanding about him.

* * *

They go upstairs and put on their clothes. He slips on his coat and goes through the motion. Skye adjusts her makeup, and they walk downstairs. Not touching. Just in the same room with each other. But they aren't exactly there. Skye goes into her car and drives to Manhattan.

Looking into the rear window, she sees her husband heading the other direction.

She sighs. There's something wrong. Something missing.

* * *

At dusk, he comes back from work. He drives home, and he looks into the rear window. There is no one following him. Good. He slows down, and he presses the button of the garage door key. The garage opens, and he drives in. He quickly sniffs himself.

Well, he smells a little bit like alcohol, but it isn't too bad. It's only the simple works—champagne, red wine, and rice wine. A bit of beer.

He puts his wedding ring back on and sighs as if there is a huge weight on his shoulder that he can't seem to shake off. Then he checks himself, and he finds a red smear on his jaw. Wincing, he rubs the stain away. Then he checks his collar and finds even more stains on his jacket. It's hard to notice, but if Skye catches it… He steps out of his car and locks it.

For a good measure, he shrugs off his suit jacket and goes in.

He opens the front door and finds Skye wearing an apron. She carries pot roast, which he notes is slightly burned around the edges. He plasters a fake smile on his face and says, "Hi, honey."

"Perfect timing," she notes, smiling back.

"Perfect timing, as always," he replies, giving her the smallest kiss on the cheek. They barely touch, and he moves around her. Once he is out of her sights, he hurries into the walk-in closet, eager to get out of the dirty clothes. He shoves his suit jacket into the washer and turn the washer on, erasing away the evidence.

* * *

She pulls out the Christmas lights from the attic. They are hidden away underneath a fine layer of dust, and she wipes them away. She coughs once, but her lungs get used to the stuffy air. The radio is on in the living room, and she can easily hear it.

She mouths along with the words, but she feels too alone.

Too much alone.

* * *

Outside, Grant digs up the old tree's root. He has already chop down most of it, and he works hard on the lawn. One day, he'll replace it with something better. Maybe something that isn't so huge. Like a bonsai tree. If he carefully trims it, the tree will be kept nice. But it probably isn't good for this type of weather.

He hears the Christmas songs on the radio, but they sound so far away from him. They sound like "Silent Night," but he doesn't know for sure.

Maybe he is too far away to know what exactly those words are.

Or maybe, he's only imagining things.

* * *

She places the fake tree in the corner of the living room, quietly humming to herself. She sets up the lights, but there isn't much to do. Everything is so perfect.

And maybe that's the problem.

She hangs a little star on top of the tree and then flips on the switch at the trunk of the tree. The lights turn on, dazzling and beautiful. For a moment, she doesn't feel so alone anymore.

Then she turns off the switch. The lights flicker out.

A heavy footstep behind her doesn't bother her too much. But then she sees the mud Grant is bringing in and instantly frowns. She looks at his foot and thinks of all the ways she can physically hurt a feet. Or foots. She isn't too picky.

But she smiles. "Just in time."

Then she flips the switch back on. The entire living room turns bright, and she just wishes the dull feeling in her chest would go away.

But it doesn't.

The next day, she goes to lunch from her work. She deviates from her usual route and chooses to go to a hair salon. Watching the woman in the mirror, Skye silently watches her hair fall down around her. Fall the floor. She comes out the hair salon, her hair to her shoulders now.

Something different.

* * *

When Grant comes home, he sees the short hair. While eating the horrible food Skye cooks, he makes a note about the hair. "The hair."

"What?" She raises her eyebrow, casually. "What about it? What do you think?" She turns left and then right, smiling. Her hair reaches to her shoulders, and they frame her jaw. "I think with this new hairstyle, I'm going to need to change my entire wardrobe. It doesn't look well with the short hair."

He fiddles with his collared-shirt. The button is a little stubborn, and in the end, he just rips it out. He makes sure he does it when Skye isn't looking. He then shoves the button in his pocket. Casually, he says, "You could just have the same hairstyle and not change anything else."

"We talked about change. We talked about changing a lot of things."

"But I thought we were going to change things later," he says, looking around. First, the hair. Now, she's thinking about changing her clothes. What's next? The entire house?

He seriously doesn't like her hair. He prefers longer hair, where he once… Wait, when is the last time he ran his hands through her hair?

Then he thinks again. After sex…?

And when is the last time they have sex?

Oh, he thinks. That was a very long time ago. The therapist has a point.

Tilting her head to the side, she speaks again. "If you don't like my hair, then just say you don't like it."

He sits down on the other side of the table and places the olive-colored napkin on his lap. Unleashing a slow breath, he admits, "Okay. I don't like it."

For a moment, she looks slightly stunned. A bit shocked. With a tiny bit of anger. Then she coldly smiles, a tad bit devilishly. "You'll get used to it."

At dinner, they eat. His teeth finds the peas to be unbearable as usual, and half of the time, he wonders where Skye learned how to cook. Because her skills—or specifically, the lack of them—are horrible.

But he has learned his lesson. Never say anything bad. Never.

"Pass the salt," he says.

"It's in the middle of the table."

He glances up from the newspaper. And there it is. The salt and the pepper shakers in the middle of the table. He frowns. "Why is it in the middle of the table?"

He swears to all who would listen that his wife is giving him the death stare.

He stands up, walks to the middle of the table, and takes the salt. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes her smile. Pleased? He then sits back in his seat and dumps as much as salt as he likes.

Then she frowns. Pissed.

* * *

Skye quickly adjusts the flower vases and then looks up when Grant walks in. He is on the iPad and says, "What do you think of 5 percent interest rate?"

"We have six percent." Then she pauses. "We are talking about the savings account, right?"

"Yes," he answers. Then he walks out of the room.

She sighs. Once again, there is not a single thing between them. It makes her feel all surer that they seriously need to see a marriage counselor. It's the right call. It's the right call.

* * *

The next day, he takes a vacation day off from his work. His boss, Daniel Whitehall, once again isn't very pleased, but there are more members on the staff. It isn't much of an issue as before. After all, Grant has been there for the company for a long time.

* * *

 **Oh, yes! I finally mentioned the hair. (But nothing about its "hideousness.") Yep, that took a very, very, very long time for me. After 6 chapters... Phew!**

 **So yay! Also, I have decided that I'm probably not going to throw in any Inhumans. Well, there are the Avengers, but... Whatever. I'll keep the Avengers in (mostly, because I'm too lazy to edit a previous chapter), but they won't have an appearance. Sorry. They will be "normal," but there is still a possibility for the abnormal (supernatural?).**

 **Furthermore, I'm looking for a beta reader. Anyone interested? Private message me, por favor. I totally need to keep watch on all those pesky errors. I know I caught a few but not all of it. Those who are really good at looking out for continuity errors, grammar errors (yes, I need them, too!), and plot holes. Also, I really don't want any of these characters to be holding the idiot ball. (The idiot ball is the ball that causes the character to make stupid decisions for the sake of the plot. Well, at least, that is what I remember. Look it up on TV Tropes for more info.)**


	7. Session 2

Andrew crosses his leg over the other. He slowly opens up Grant's file once again, takes a long look at all the notes he'd made, and says, "So why did you come back?"

He shrugs.

Andrew narrows his eyes, but he tries again. "Okay. I have noticed that you didn't fill out much in your questionnaire. You didn't put in a lot of personal details, especially in some areas. Can you tell me what happened in your childhood?"

He sighs, just stares at Andrew.

Andrew leans forward, his leg uncrossing. "Look, Grant. You have to understand that if you're quiet, I don't be able to understand what's going wrong in your relationship with Daisy."

"Skye," he says, his voice quiet.

"What?"

"Her name is Skye."

"Okay." He nods, absorbing the information he gets from ten seconds of talking with Grant. He thinks, this is a start. "Do you want to talk about your childhood?" A pause. "On the scale of one to ten, how would you list your childhood as?"

Silence.

Then Grant answers, "Depends on how old I was."

"Overall childhood."

"Two," he answers. Then he frowns, scowling at Andrew. He grips his armrests, and his lips are pressed into a thin line. "Are you even qualified to look over old childhood traumas?"

Andrew slightly raises his head, but he doesn't make any other comment. From the white knuckles of Grant Ward's hands, he knows that it is time to take a very large step back. Moving to a different subject, he asks, "What is going on between you and your wife?"

Grant sits across from Andrew, scratching his jaw. Then he places the hand down and sits back. He shrugs and lets out a breath. "Look, I love my wife very much. I want the best for her. We love our house, and it's our home. Our sanctuary."

Andrew prompts, "But what?"

"It feels like something is missing," he admits.

"Hmm…" Andrew scratches out a note in his file. "In the earlier session, you have mentioned about the quiet but very, very intensive strains between you two. Could you please define it more?"

Grant stares out in the distance, looking at the glass window. At first, it seems that he isn't going to say anything but he does.

"Okay. So this is what happened. At night… Yesterday," says Grant, gesturing a bit calmly yet also angry with his hands. "Yesterday, we got a phone call. Or specifically, we both got a phone call at the same time. I don't know who is on the other line with her."

"Grant, start from the beginning and go from there."

"It started out like this. I got a phone call from my office," he narrates, his hands relaxing. But just slightly. Just slightly. "They had a problem. One of the lawyers failed to close a deal, he failed to obtain a signature, and it turned out that I had to go down there and close it myself. A lot of work, but you know the job. Horrible, all hours of the day, people calling you at strange times and panicking about business deals. The life of a busy owner of a company. So I was using the bedroom phone, and then she got the call. Maybe a few seconds after me."

"And?" presses Andrew.

Grant shakes his head, running his hands through his hair. "She was on the phone, talking to someone. And she just seems so happy. Alive in the way I haven't seen her in a long time." His shoulders fall lax, and then he asks, "Is there something going on with her? Or even me? Am I not enough for her? Am I not around enough? Should I spend more time with her? Or what?" He sighs and tugs at his hair. "I want to make sure that… We…" He throws his hands up in frustration.

"I know you feel like you're the only couple going through this…" He pauses until Grant finally makes eye contact with him. "But believe me, right now, there are millions of couples in America that are experiencing the same relationship problems you are."

To his surprise, Grant simply raises his eyebrow. With palpable disbelief and a possible touch of sarcasm, he says, "Really?"

"Really," echoes Andrew.

Grant leans against his chair and then crosses his arms. "Skye told me that you used to be married to a friend of hers. Melinda May?"

Shaking his head, Andrew waves his hand. "We are focusing on your life. Not mine."

"No." His lips thin again, and he says, "But whatever has happened to your marriage with Melinda May…" He pauses, snapping his fingers to find the perfect words. "I don't want the same thing to happen to Skye and me. Well, unless Skye actually wants it to happen. To break apart." He bitterly adds, "After all, it seems like she is much happier with someone else than me."

Andrew slowly lets out a long breath of fresh air. First of all, he wishes Skye has never gone to him for marriage counseling. Checking the mentalities of soldiers and veterans is one thing. But marriage counseling—even though he does have some experience with other couples such as Bobbi Morse and Lance Hunter—is a nightmare. A living nightmare. He doesn't need to hear about interspecies romance. He rubs his forehead, and then says, "I think communication is the issue between you two. Let yourself talk. Communicate. Who knows what you didn't know about her?"

After the session, Andrew puts a call to Phil Coulson. It takes three rings, but he reaches him anyway. "Phil, it's Andrew. I want to talk to you about Skye and her husband."

"I'm a little busy here." Then he ends the call.

Andrew patiently waits by the phone. He checks the watch. Thirty seconds. One minute. One minute and thirty seconds. Two minutes. Two minutes and thirty seconds. Three minutes. Then the phone rings again.

He picks it up. "Andrew Garner. Phil, you're getting a little slow these days. Three minutes and four seconds."

"Yeah." He can hear a sheepish grin on the other line. "What do you want to talk about? Skye and Grant Ward?"

"Did you clear Grant Ward to know the truth about Skye's job? Because it sounds like he doesn't know what she does," says Andrew, getting right to business.

"I should have," mutters Phil. "Give me a moment."

He waits and then says, "Phil?"

"Yeah. I did clear him. Skye probably didn't tell him."

Andrew sighs. "Thank you. That would explain many things, Phil."

* * *

 **Okay, I checked the beginning of the story. Apparently the link for the Tumblr post that inspired me to write this thing in the first place is gone. But the user is (** **shadowing-not-smothering). Just add the usual Tumblr ending. And I may or may not add Skye as an Inhuman. Too many choices! Too many choices! You don't understand how mad I'm going!**

 **Also, thanks for all the reviews so far! Keep them coming. Keep them coming.**


	8. Killers

Stinking of alcohol, Grant Ward walks around in the seediest part of town. It's clear he doesn't belong here. He looks like a drunk hotshot lawyer from Wall Street, not a poor man with shady connections. In his front pocket, he carries too much cash than one should in this part of town. He passes by an old car—a black '67 Chevy Impala—and notes the two young men leaning against it. Waving at them, he grins too big and says, "Nice car!"

"Lose it, drunk," sneers the closest man.

He mockingly salutes him and stumbles his way into a club. He knocks himself into the bouncer and asks, "Where is Nelly?" He slurs his words, the markings of a drunk man.

"Why?" interrogates the bouncer.

"I'm looking for some action," he replies, holding his hands up. He takes out the cash and slurs, "I want to play a game."

* * *

Skye, dressed in a black trench coat made from fine cashmere, quickly walks up to a fancy five-star hotel. She looks up at the building, admiring it for a moment. It probably costs four hundred, five hundred dollars per night. Grant and Skye could easily afford it, but there isn't anything in the hotel for them. They would rather stay at home.

She strolls to the elevator. To the penthouse. No one stares at her. For all they know, she is only a guest at the hotel. She knocks at the door and steps inside. Three security guards stand around, mostly wasting time by watching the live feed of Lakers vs. the Celtics. They easily let her through after checking her purse, which carries a whip, a pair of handcuffs, and a few packets of condoms. They take one glance at the clothes she has underneath and then roll their eyes.

The leader of the guards looks at her and orders, "Be quick. We leave in a plane in two hours. Understand?"

The Yemeni let her through. Then she steps into the bedroom and finds her man wearing a simple charcoal suit. Suit jacket, shirt, slacks. No tie. He carefully inspects her from head to toe, and Skye, not one bit panicked, lets him look. She examines him, too. She takes a long look at his receding hairline, the shortness of his statue, and the way he carries himself. Bad spine.

Finally, he smiles with leering eyes. Then nods.

She's a go.

* * *

He sits at the table and laughs with the poker players as if they are his greatest friends. They offer him Scotch and other alcoholic drinks. Get him very drunk. That is their purpose. He sits across from Nelly and shakes his head, laughing even harder. Having the time of his life.

"Call," he says.

Nelly raises his eyebrow. "You can't call."

"Oh." He takes a second look at the poker table. He glances around at the other cards in the other player's hands. "Then I'm out?"

"Fold," says Nelly, rolling his eyes. He puffs his cigar into Grant's face. Blows. Then a gray cloud of smoke comes to Grant. "You fold."

"Oh," he repeats, shaking his head. He shuts his eyes and then rapidly opens it. He laughs in sheer delight. "Is it me or the room seems to be spinning like mad?"

"You want another drink?" asks Nelly's friend.

He shakes his head. "I'm good. I'm good."

"Shit," says Nelly's other friend. Grant is beginning to call him "Bad Breath." For obvious reasons. "You have more tells than anyone I have ever met!"

Grant force a laugh, roaring as if that is the funniest joke he has ever heard. He shakes his head again and raises the tequila bottle. "Very right, you are!" Then he turns back to his cards and frown at the jack in his hands. "Hey, is a jack higher than a queen?"

Nelly and his friend shares a look. Their thoughts are obvious.

"Yes," lies Bad Breath, his face a lively red. "A jack is higher than a queen!"

He obviously loses the hand. Grant points at the table, crying out loudly. "Come on! I could had have that round!"

"Could!" Bad Breath snorts and then runs his meaty hands through his long locks of greasy hair. He slaps the back of Grant's shoulder. "Could had!"

Then the door behind Grant bursts open. A man wearing a baseball hat looks up and squints at Grant. As his mouth parts, Grant can easily see his golden teeth underneath. And that is the Lucky he has been looking for.

"What are you doing here?" inquires Lucky.

"My job," he answers, slurring his words.

"And what is the job?"

"You," he answers.

Then five precise gunshots.

* * *

The man is handcuffed on the floor. Skye tilts her head, calculating the time. Two hours. Less than two hours now. Specifically one hour and fifty-seven minutes. She pulls out a whip and gently hits the mark's back. Slowly, seductively, she murmurs, "You have been a very naughty, naughty boy. You have been very, very bad."

The mark moans softly. "I have been a very naughty boy."

"You deserve to be punished," she says, the words turning into bitterness as they leave her mouth. But the job is the job. And she does what it takes. She whips him a little harder.

"Yes," he groans.

"Mommy is going to punish you."

"Oh." He pauses, his eyes closing. "Yes, yes, yes."

She places the whip on his bed. She steps behind him, her hands on his shoulders. They creep towards his neck, and she tantalizingly adds, "You have been very bad." A pause. "You will be punished. Have you been selling big guns to bad people?"

He lets out a long breath. "Yes, yes… Wait, what?"

Skye easily cracks his neck. Dead instantly.

* * *

Grant Ward whistles as he takes off his suit jacket. The bullet he shot through it ruins the entire jacket, but it's not a problem. He'll tell Skye that he lost it at work. Somewhere. He eyes Nelly's cards and then takes a slow peek at them. A two and a five. Both hearts. He throws it down and smiles.

"I knew he was bluffing," he murmurs. He shakes his head and starts cleaning himself up. He fixes his hair, and he straightens out his black tie. It isn't much, but a little bit of changes make a whole lot of differences. He walks over Lucky's dead body and then hails a taxi. It's time to go home.

Then he checks his watch—which shows seven o'clock on its face. Not home, he realizes. He palms his head and kicks himself.

The Peterson's. They are having their Thanksgiving dinner. He curses himself for nearly forgetting. In the back of the taxi, he calls his work and leaves a message. "Ward. I have taken care of the deal. All the signatures have been signed, the contract is finished, and I'm heading home. Don't call me after hours."

He ends the call.

The taxi driver, an elderly man of sixty years old, comments, "You work very hard, don't you?"

Grant glances down at his shirt and clothes. They make him look like a slob, and he winces. Skye will never live this down if he looks like a lawyer turned pimp. Nodding, he swallows and says, "Take me to Ward Architecture Firm. Located at Queens."

"Address?" huffs the driver.

He gives him it.

* * *

She quickly fastens her black trench coat over herself. Then walking to the edge of the balcony, she begins the slow climb down. She carefully places her hands on the ridges and sets her foot down on the pipelines. It's slightly difficult in kitten heels, but it's possible. The security guards haven't figured out their boss is dead.

She glances downwards. Seven stories more to go. But…

She carefully places her hands on the pipelines and then jumps down to the nearest fire escape. She walks down the metal stairs as quietly as possible. On the second floor, the fire escape ends. The ladder instantly slides down, and she quickly drops down to the sidewalk. She glances around. The alleyways are dark, and there is no one watching her.

Good.

"Taxi?" Walking to the street, she waves her hand and whistles. One yellow cab stops in front of her, and she opens the door. "Valley Stream." Then she makes herself very comfortable in the backseat of the cab. Poking at some varsity jacket left there, she picks up her phone and calls work. "Hey, it's me."

"How was the job?" asks Simmons.

"Done. I'm done. The virus is out of the system. The servers are working perfectly now. I'm going to be heading home. Don't call me off of office hours," she says.

Typing on the other end, Jemma replies, "Alright. I have taken you off the call list. Also, I nearly forgot to tell you. Morse's team is working to close down some cells in the Middle East. She will be coming home tomorrow. May's out with DC, and Hunter is killing me."

She laughs. "Give Hunter some sleeping pills. It'll work."

"I can't. He's not eating or drinking anything."

She rolls her eyes. "Alright. Then send him to his office and try to avoid him. If he is as grumpy as I think he is, you're going to need to stay far away from him."

"I'll try to. I'll see you at work tomorrow, okay? Bye, Skye."

"Bye." Then she ends the call. She calmly checks the time on her phone. It's seven thirty, clean. She frowns slightly and then says, "Hey. I want to change my destination." Then she rattles off another address to an upscale restaurant in New York City. The taxi driver nods, and she grins. "Thank you."

She makes further phone calls, this time to the restaurant. It takes five rings for her to reach the hostess, and she says, "Hi, I'm looking for a nice pot roast. Yes, it's for Thanksgiving." She laughs as the hostess makes a comment about how many people are ordering pot roast. "Yes, I'm sure there are a lot of people. I nearly forgot about Thanksgiving until tonight. So could you please…?"

"Yes, we can make one for you," replies the hostess.

"How soon can you make it? I need it thirty minutes?"

"Not a problem."

Skye smiles. "Thank you very much."

"What name should we put it under?"

"Johnson," she answers. "Thank you."

* * *

 **Yay! Another chapter up. It turns out I might take a large deviation from the movie's plot. Stay tune and keep reviewing!**


	9. Session 3

"Thank you for letting me come even though it isn't office hours," says Skye, sitting down on the chair opposite of him. She leans forward in her black trench coat and remarks, "Oh, and I also need to change my clothes. Is it alright if I use your private restroom after this session?"

"Not a problem," he replies, picking up her file from the side table. "Now, your husband came back a few days ago to talk to me. He is absolutely clueless. Skye, you seriously need to tell Grant what's going on with your job. He is beginning to feel like you are cheating on him."

Skye bites her lips and sits back. She sighs. "I know Phil cleared him, but I feel like… Every time, I try to tell him, it's like something prevents me from saying a word. And now, six years has passed. Andrew, how am I supposed to say that I have been keeping a secret that large from him for over six years? I don't think I can do this."

Andrew tilts his head and scribbles down a note in her file. "Skye, communication is always the key to a successful marriage. If you don't talk, what you have with Grant is going to die."

"I know." She sighs again. "I know."

A pause.

"Skye, is there anything you want to talk about? Anything at all?"

"Yeah." She pauses. She taps her forehead and blows the random strands of hair out of her face. "It's just… How am I supposed to tell him that his wife of six years has been killing people for a secret government organization that officially doesn't exist? I don't think he's going to believe me. At all. Oh, and we can't forget that she is being targeted by over fifteen organizations all over the world. And all of those organizations are full of terrorists." She gives Andrew a pointed look and just shakes her head.

"You do have a point," he concedes. "But Melinda told me. Before we were even married."

Then she smiles, leaning forward towards him. "Speaking of Melinda and you, can you tell me what her wedding dress looks like? I already know what flowers, but the wedding dress is…" Her voices fades away, and she looks at him eagerly. "Come on, Andrew. You have to tell me a little tiny detail. You know how Melinda is. Zip." She points to her mouth, shutting it.

Andrew smiles lightly. "Skye, back to your issue with Grant."

"Just one detail," she pleads, putting her hands together as if she's praying. "Come on. A little tiny thing. You have never answered whether or not May was a bridezilla. Strict colors? Everything has to be perfect? No details too small or too big? Come on… A little detail."

"Skye. Get back to the issue."

She groans and groans like an unsatisfied fangirl. "You're killing me here, Andrew!"

He rolls his eyes. It always seems that everyone wants to know how a psychologist ends up being married to the legendary Melinda May. "Let's get back on point," he says, raising his hand. "Now, you and Grant told me about the beginning of your marriage in the first session. Of course, Grant isn't aware what really happened in Egypt."

"Nope. He doesn't know about the Colonel's _accidental_ death," she says. From her tone of voice, Andrew can tell that his death is far from accidental. From the files on her, he knows exactly how the Colonel died.

"Okay. So what draw you in to Grant? What attracted you to him?" he inquires, staring at her body language to facial expressions.

She thinks, looking up at the ceiling. She flips her memories for the first moment she has met him and then answers, "He was physically attractive. Dark, tall, and handsome. He was so exciting, and… I felt like I knew him… Truly knew him, but…"

"What trait?" prompts Andrew.

Skye continues digging. "He was…" She throws her hands up in frustration. Then a light goes off in her eyes. "I have no idea."

Andrew doesn't make a single sound. But he does discretely scratch out another note. He tries not to think too much, but he already knows that this relationship is going to need a lot of work. Too many secrets in the closet, especially on Skye's end. Maybe even on Grant's end, too.

He then moves to a different subject. "Skye, how is your job going right now? With the assignments? The missions Phil has been handing to you? I know the assignments are coming much more frequently now."

"A lot of bad men need killing," she answers, her voice low and frighteningly calm. She looks directly at Andrew, and he can tell that she has no regrets. "The world is better off without them. You know the target I have eliminated less than an hour ago?"

"Yes. An arms dealer from Yemen," he answers, registering her surprise. Clicking his pen, he reveals, "Phil let me have access to your assignments and latest missions. He wants to make sure that everything is normal."

"Ugh." She sticks out her tongue. "DC, DC, DC."

Director Coulson.

"He's looking out for you," points out Andrew.

"I know," she says, sighing again. She adjusts her hair and pins it up. "But I have been doing this for years. Over seven years now. I'm one of the best professionals in this business. He doesn't need to worry about me anymore. I'm not as young and innocent and naïve as I used to be."

He nods and then says, "Okay. You can go, Skye. I think this is enough for today."

She stands up and then heaves a plastic bag to Andrew's private bathroom. It isn't the first time she has done this—coming to him after a job. He sits on his chair, just thinking and wondering if Skye is ever going to tell Grant the truth. He comes to a conclusion that she probably isn't going to. Telling Grant about one thing means he will ask more questions. And knowing Skye, she doesn't like being pried open like a banana, stripped down to the center.

Three minutes later, she comes out in her housewife persona. Her hair is down, and she wears a pink dress with an identical pink cardigan. Her flats barely make a sound as she moves across the oak floorboards. She waves at him. "I'll see you later, Andrew."

Lost in thought, he replies, "Traditional wedding."

She blinks, clearly confused. "What?"

"Melinda and I had a traditional wedding. Chinese traditions," he says, admitting the truth. He shifts uncomfortably, as the memories comes back into his head. "That means Melinda wears a red dress, and the theme color is red. All the way. We married in Beijing. Where Melinda's parents grew up."

At Skye's growing smile, he cracks the slightest grin.

"Oh, my gosh. I can't believe that! See you later!" She shuts the door behind her, and he could hear her delighted laughter through the walls.

* * *

 **As usual, I ask for reviews. Even one word can help me a lot. (Okay, maybe not. But I could always use a sentence.) Thanks for reading!**


	10. Thanksgiving

The Petersons must always have their annual Thanksgiving party.

Grant sighs, wishing he doesn't have to do this. Sometimes, having a civilian cover just complicates things. But he must play the role of a suburbanite, as much as he loathes to. He looks up and down the street until his eyes settle on a familiar white sedan. Grant Ward walks over to his wife's car, and he knocks on her window. He waves at her, tugs at his tie, and says, "How did it go? The problem with the servers? Is it gone?"

"Fine, good. You?" Skye raises her eyebrow. She rolls up the window and turns off the engine. Skye picks up a white package on the passenger seat and gets out of the car. Together, the Johnson couple walk over to the Peterson's spacious home. They cross the street, and Grant puts his hands in his pocket.

"Good," he answers, his shoes hitting the sidewalks loudly. He can't quite get rid of that image. His wife. In someone else's arms. Instead of his. Defeating twenty—hell, maybe even forty—people like Lucky would be a cakewalk compared to his marriage. "Played some poker with the rich guy's lawyers. We played for about two hours. Maybe less."

"How did it go?"

He can't resist a smile, just thinking about the entire job. And the pun. He seriously can't forget about the pun. "I got Lucky."

Her eyes flicker up, towards the sky. And then she rings the doorbell. It's a gentle buzz, and then the door opens. A tall black man with kind eyes, Mike Peterson rushes at Grant and swiftly hugs him in a bear hug. He smells distinctively of peppermint aftershave, and Grant tries not to breathe in too much of it. Too strong. "Happy holidays, neighbors!"

Grant winces. He forgets how touchy Mike can get.

Then Mike's sister, Mindy, calls out, "Mikey, who is that?" She comes into view, wearing a white apron and a turtleneck underneath it. She smiles broadly and hugs Skye. "Skye! Long time, no see." And then she gasps at the white box in Skye's hands. "Oh, Skye. You shouldn't have!"

"But I did," says Skye, plastering a smile on her face. "Pot roast. It isn't much, but I'm sure that everyone would love to have some of it. I heard from the restaurant's reviews that it is absolutely excellent." She walks right in, and Grant follows her in. He shuts the door and ignores the announcing bells hanging on the doorknob. "It says that the vegetables are sourced from local farmers in New Jersey. Organic, of course. Little sodium. No preservatives like MSG. The taste is absolutely—"

"Grant!" calls out another neighbor. He wears a suit, just without a tie. His collar is slightly rumpled, and he smells a little bit like beer. And champagne. Grant, unfortunately not remembering his name, knows he works on Wall Street. An investment banker who works at Bank of America. Or something like that. Too many suburban couples to keep straight.

"Hi," he says back, shaking his hand. He and his wife part ways, and he can't help but try to keep an eye on her. Nowadays, it seems like he is watching his wife much more than looking out for suspicious figures and people. Offhandedly, he comments, "The stock market is going down. It must be an absolute disaster for you."

They head to the backyard's patio, and Grant sits down at an empty chair. Five other guys—all of them working in finance or medicine—group around the table and play Texas holdem with vigor. They all greet Grant with enthusiasm, and he greets them back with a hand shake.

He forgets how much he hates these things. The only plus is the food. Free food, but he can never resist tasting it for any poisons. Old habit, but there is no such thing as being too paranoid.

"How is your company, Grant?" says the suit on the right.

"Growing as usual," he answers, smiling. He watches the poker cards and immediately begins looking for obvious tells. "If it grows any larger, I'm afraid that the competitors will start paying attention. I'm already stealing their clients."

They laugh.

Bob, which is the only name Grant remembers because of some neighborhood scandal involving peanut butter and his grandson with peanut butter allergies, mutters, "Very good, very good. I heard that your stocks are going down, Rick."

"Absolutely," Rick confirms, loosening his tie. He takes a long gulp from his beer bottle and shakes his head. "But we will bring it back up next year." He raises a fist at the ceiling.

"We'll see about it." Grant nods, doubting his words. From the look on Rick's face, it's clear that Rick doesn't believe in himself or his company. He makes a mental note to check whatever company Rick is working at—just for the fun of it. "We'll see. I'll be watching you in the news."

Holding a plate of pot roast, Mike sets it down in the center of the table. He takes the last empty chair and says, "Grant, I heard about your company. Expanding into India and East Asia? You're building something over there for a construction company and a rich CEO? And that deal with Japan. It's really impressive." He takes off his mittens and smiles in admiration. "The firm has created a lot of beautiful buildings."

"Yes," he agrees, taking ahold of the poker cards and acting as the dealer. He passes out two per each person and then takes two for himself. He sets down the entire deck. "The firm is doing incredibly well. While the market takes a huge dip down into the hellhole, I'm surviving."

"And thriving," adds Bob. "Good luck to you, Grant."

* * *

Skye joins the gaggle of mothers and watches Mike's sister hold her child in her hands. She coos at her and then bops her nose. Skye smiles lightly, and for a second, she wishes she is good with kids. Mindy clearly is.

Then her child sneezes on Mindy's shirt. Drool drips onto the blue scarf, and Mindy gasps sharply. She quickly shoves Kisha into Skye's arms and grabs ahold of the stain. "Please hold her while I clean off." Then Mindy is gone, walking upstairs.

Skye opens her mouth in shock. Frightened for the first time in several years, she gently rocks Kisha back and forth and hopes that Mindy will be back as soon as possible. Like right now. She sits down on the white leather loveseat. Kisha turns her head around and stares at Skye for a long moment.

Resting on Skye's left, the mother with a baby boy says to Skye, "Babies see everything, you know. Almost as if they can see right into your soul."

Skye gulps and give Kisha a careful grin. Please like me, please like me, she thinks quietly. She smiles a little wider, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Grant staring at her with mild surprise. He then grabs a beer from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet and pops it open. He drinks a slow gulp and watches her with Kisha with an unreadable expression.

She turns back to Kisha.

And as luck would have it, Kisha smiles.

"Aww…" Mindy coos, picking up Kisha. She turns to Skye and rocks Kisha. "I think Kisha likes you very much, Skye."

Skye gives Mindy a relieved smile. "Yeah…"

She turns back for Grant, but he's already gone.

* * *

Back at home, she puts on her designer pajamas and walks into the bathroom. She picks up her toothbrush from the cabinet and then carefully brushes her teeth. Next to her, in his own sink, Grant gargles loudly. Raising her eyebrow, Skye brushes the sides of her teeth as she eyes his very exposed throat.

Too loud, she thinks.

An hour later, she sits in the living room. She flips through the iPad, playing some Angry Birds. They fly in the air and kill some green pigs. She smiles when all of them die. Pigs. Ugly green pigs.

A sudden _crank_ draws her attention. She looks over to Grant and scowls at him. He doesn't notice. He's too busy trying to bring the armchair all the way back. He lays down and begins to type loudly on his laptop.

She grits her teeth. Too many sounds.

* * *

In the bed, Grant covers his eyes with his pillow. Why does she have to be reading a fashion magazine at this time? He wonders that question several times. Is there something in the magazine that really interests her? He flips to his side and groans. He sits up and then walks downstairs.

He fills his glass with water and then turns on his iPad. He goes through news, trying to find anything interesting or strange. Nothing at all. There is a tiny article about a few murders, but no one really cares. A few pimps die? No one cares or sheds a single tear. There will always be someone else who takes up the space they left behind.

He turns it off and then walks back up the stairs. It creaks, but he doesn't mind it too much. To his relief, the light in his bedroom is off. Skye is going to sleep.

He climbs back into bed.

* * *

Two phones ring.

Skye immediately wakes up and pats the dark gray nightstand next to her. Knocking the iPad on the floor, she finds her cell phone and says, "Hello? This is Daisy Johnson." She ignores the fallen tablet and listens very carefully.

"Skye, there's a problem," says DC. "I won't explain it to you right now, but I'm alerting you that there's a very serious issue. I need the best. The best of the best."

Next to her, she hears, "Grant Johnson. This is the second time this week you have called me. What is going on in France? There shouldn't be this many problems. Everything was supposed to be on schedule."

She turns back to her conversation, listening to Phil talk in her ear. Resisting a yawn, she says, "Dad, it's three in the morning. You couldn't call at a different time? Is everything alright?"

"This is important," replies Phil, his voice low and soft. Skye strains her ears to pick up every word. "A problem. Simmons will explain it at the office tomorrow. You're going to need to come in on Saturday. Understand, Skye?"

"Yeah. Of course. I'll be there. Bye, Dad," she answers, resisting another yawn. Rubbing her eyes, she hangs up. She leaves her phone charging.

"Right. I understand. I'll fix the problem myself. I'll even fly there if it makes you feel much better," says Grant, on his own cell phone. There is a beep, and he hangs up. He turns to Skye. "What's up?"

Skye ignores the pricks of her conscience. She decides to tell another lie. "Dad is not feeling well. My mother is freaking out. She thinks he has some cancer or something in stomach. Probably is just acid stomach, nothing big of a deal."

Grant places the cell phone on the nightstand. "Maybe you should take the day off tomorrow. Go and see your father in New Jersey. Your mother would be really happy to see you again."

Skye smiles, cursing herself for telling her secrets sooner than before. She slips underneath the covers and murmurs, "You're so sweet."

"I'm just thinking of your dad."

Then she frowns. I probably spoke too soon, she thinks. But she speaks. "Who was on your line?"

"Paris branch. Something was off. The dimensions of the mansion we're trying to build in a small town near Paris is incorrect. I might have to go and fly out to France to take an actual look," he replies, slipping back under the covers. "But we'll see."

"Yep." A pause. "Good night."

"Good night." And the lamp on the night stand winks out with a click.

* * *

 **Hahaha. If you squint hard enough, you'll find a bit of Brett Dalton in Grant Ward. But yay! Another chapter is up. I'm getting closer... A little closer to Grant and Skye finding out the elephant in the room. Stay tune. Oh, and please keep on reviewing. I always love a few comments. Critical or just plain "Dang it, Penelope. You need to keep writing!"**


	11. Job

Grant steps out the walk-in closet with a black suitcase in tow. He quickly adjusts his collar and then steps into the garage. Skye is still asleep, stealing all of the covers. He finds his black sedan in front of him and stores the suitcase into the trunk of the car. Then he looks left and right. Listens carefully. All clear, to his satisfaction.

He steps to the cabinet in the corner of the garage and pushes away the golf clubs blocking the door. He carefully opens the door and then waits. "Grant Ward," he enunciates.

There's a soft beep. Then the interior of the cabinet moves slightly upwards. Everything is pushed up for about two feet, and Grant can't see the top shelves of the cabinet anymore. He bends down and opens the safe. Sometimes, paranoia kills a person. It takes too much time to take out a single gun.

But he does. He presses his thumb to the safe and then pulls out an Army Swiss knife. For a good measure, he takes out two handguns and two sound suppressors. Two Glock 17s. Nothing less and nothing more. He doesn't need much to do this job.

At least, that is what he hopes.

He shuts the safety box and puts away the guns in his holster. He slips the knife into his pocket and then closes the cabinet. He gently places the golf clubs back in place.

Perfect. Not a single thing out of the ordinary.

Then he takes off for work.

* * *

Skye opens her eyes as soon as she hears silence.

Grant's gone for work. Good.

She pulls away the sheets and rolls over to the side. She steps into her white slippers and quickly makes her way into the bathroom. She comes out and walks down the stairs to the kitchen. She smiles as she inserts a certain passcode in the oven's buttons. There's an inaudible beat as the oven's interior begins to rise. The door pops open, and the drawers slide forward. Rows of knives, guns, poisons, even crossbows reveal themselves before her.

Skye picks up a pocket knife, two throwing spikes, and a gun. Glock 21. On a second thought, she grabs two more knives—throwing knives. She places them on the kitchen counter, and the hidden inventory of weapons disappears once she was out of range. She picks up some cereal from the cabinet and begins to eat.

She always hates what she cooks.

She dresses up in a black pantsuit and arms herself, the familiar weight comforting her more than a mother's touch ever could. Throwing knives hide in certain pockets, and a pocket knife is placed in her purse. She arranges her hair into a strict bun and places the throwing spikes in her hair. She looks left and right in the mirror.

There. It looks just like chopsticks. Nothing like lethal weapons.

* * *

He walks to the two-story building in the distance. Ward Architecture Firm has a building—the New York City branch—that is boring and dull in nearly every way. White walls, simple flowers in the front, and a porcelain fountain of a lounging mermaid sprouting water from her mouth. The fountain is a bit tacky, he admits, but it has its purposes.

He walks into the building, and dozens of assistants and designers walk around with purpose. They give Grant a wide berth, and he makes it to the second floor without a single hitch. He passes by his assistant and says, "Hello, Fitz."

Leo Fitz, his legs cut off thanks to Grant's company, nods at him. He looks a bit pale, but that's probably because Daniel Whitehall is calling for Grant's ears. After Grant shuts the door to the hallway, Fitz blurts out, "Whitehall's assistant is calling you. Day and night."

He glances up and down as if Whitehall might actually be here. But Grant's eyes tell him there's nothing out of the ordinary. Grant pauses in front of Leo's desk. "I'll talk to Whitehall. How are you doing today?"

"As good as anyone without legs," replies Fitz, nervously glancing to the door. His voice drops to a low whisper, and he says, "They did get my measurements, right?"

"Yeah," confirms Grant. He then pats Fitz's shoulder and walks into the second part of his office. He has two parts. One is for the assistant, which Fitz currently resides—and Grant seriously hopes he gets out as soon as possible. The other one is for Grant himself. He closes the door behind him and then eyes his personal space.

It's very simple. Picture frames hang from the wall, a dead plant lies in the corner, and a couch rests in the center of the room. He makes his way to his desk and sits down. Tapping onto the computer screen, he says, "Grant Ward."

"Identity confirmed," replies the computer. The windows slowly begin to darken, and the blinders come down in unison.

"Grant Ward," says Daniel Whitehall, nodding at him from the screen. A popup window shows an icon of some mysterious file being downloaded—most definitely from Whitehall's office. "There is a very nasty problem I must deal with. I expect you to handle it."

Grant straightens up and nods at the white-haired man who only looks to be in his late thirties. But Grant knows very much that he is much older than he looks. "Alright. What's the issue?"

"I need you to personally take care of Ian Quinn," replies Whitehall, pushing his glasses up. "He is a direct threat to Hydra. Unfortunately, he is in the hands of the FBI. Highly secured Witness Protection program. After you're done with Quinn, there is a weapon in his inventory that must be collected. Hydra isn't sure where it is, but I have agents searching for it. Should you stumble across it, you must take it into our possession."

"And that is…?"

"It's called the Gravitonium." Then Whitehall ends the connection.

Grant Ward raises his eyebrow, but he does his work. He looks over Ian Quinn and then begins to come up with a plan to kill Quinn. Grant remembers him well. Quinn used to be part of Hydra. The money.

* * *

She steps into the lobby of Parcens Tower. The security guard lets her through with a single glance, and she rides the elevator with a black leather briefcase in her hands. She reaches the top level of the entire building and then walks out of the elevator. She breathes in. The fresh smell of citrus makes her relax—but only slightly.

The hallways lead her down to a door labeled 1301, but Skye knows every single door on this floor. She presses her finger against the pad, and the door clicks open. She walks right into a small chamber, and her entire body illuminates in blue light. The metal-clad door locks behind her.

X-ray. Along with a few other precautions.

The screen in front of her flickers on. A small picture of Phil Coulson appears, but she can't see a live feed of him. She smiles and greets, "Hey, DC."

"Hi, Skye," he greets back. Then he gets straight into business. "There is a problem. I'm sorry that I have to call you in on a Saturday."

"That's alright, DC."

"There is a man named Ian Quinn. He is a former agent of Hydra," explains Coulson.

She instantly perks up. Hydra. Gosh, she can't remember a time when she didn't hate that organization with an intense mixture of disgust, loathing, and urge to kill. But she is cautious, pushing her hopes down. "Is this a kill order or do you want me to retrieve him?"

"Kill Quinn," orders Coulson. A pause. "But there is something of interest. It's a weapon called the Gravitonium. It must be retrieved. I have an inkling of where it is. But I'll send more data as I get it."

Then Coulson ends the connection.

And the door in front of Skye opens. She steps out into the light, and she walks down the metal stairs. Women and men in suits walk around, chatting about assignments from all over the globe. Jemma Simmons holds a tablet in her hands and asks, "So how did the session with Andrew go? Any little more information about May?"

"The wedding was traditional. Chinese traditional," answers Skye, biting her lips in stark amusement. She lets Simmons mull over the information for a moment and then says, "Okay. So what is going on with Ian Quinn?"

Together, the pair head towards Skye's office.

Once Skye closes the door behind her, Simmons says, "Ian Quinn. Taken by a bunch of FBI agents. He is going to be hold as a prisoner, but if he spills out any truths about Shield, we will all be in trouble."

"Got it." Skye nods, sitting at her desk. "What about information on Hydra? He should know something that we definitely don't know."

"We already have May posing as one of the FBI agents," explains Simmons, flipping the tablet over and showing Skye a picture of Ian Quinn. He is a relatively handsome man with dark hair and smiling eyes. Not the sort of person one would expect to be a part of an organization that used to be part of the Third Reich. "May got what she could, but if she kills Ian outright using any poisons or weapons…"

"Yeah. I know," says Skye, nodding again. "She will be caught, and her picture is going on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Where is he right now?"

Then Simmons begins laying out the details of Ian Quinn's next location thanks to intelligence from May. "May knows he will be moved to a secured facility in Seattle. An armed truck will take him from San Francisco. There are a few openings, but May says that they will be scheduled for a stop in Portland. It's tight squeeze, but it's the best opening. They'll be there by nightfall."

"Cover of the night. Tall buildings. I could use a sniper rifle to knock his head off from a mile away. Or a helicopter," she mutters, tapping her chin. "Thanks, Simmons. I'll get right to it after I talk with the team."

"Skye," she says, gripping her shoulder. Her normally bright brown eyes are now dark and hateful. "Give him hell from me."

She grins. "With pleasure."

* * *

 **Yeah! I'm a bit late today, but that is what happens when I'm multitasking. Well, sort of. The NaNoWriMo story (A Shift in Time) is taking a lot out of me. But I'm back to this fanfic. Thanks for reading, everyone. And don't forget to share your thoughts (aka: please review my fanfic).**


	12. Preparation

Skye points to a picture of the warehouse the FBI will be commandeering over their short stop in Portland. She says, "The warehouse has a few weak points at a few locations. There is another warehouse directly north of the drop zone, where the target will be let out for a quick bathroom break. There are three identical trucks traveling together, and it is impossible to tell which one contains Ian until he steps outside. Unfortunately, there are no tall buildings or skyscrapers."

Grabbing at her mouth, Bobbi Morse stifles a laugh. Everyone knows of Skye's sniper record, which she made four months ago. Skye has been itching to break it herself before someone else does.

She continues on with her business. "It's a quiet neighborhood. That means if I used a silenced sniper rifle, it's still going to be heard. There needs to be at least four evacuation plans in place. Water is one escape route. A car placed at the main road is another potential escape. Plus, we have an agent in the trucks with the subject. We can't blow up the truck unless we want to…"

She lets the sentence hang.

Everyone knows what happens when an explosive is planted in a car. Boom. The Grim Reaper then comes around to collect his jar of souls.

They continue bouncing off ideas on the wall. But Skye will need to fly out to Portland in three hours. Good thing she has already packed.

* * *

Grant Ward and Leo Fitz sit across from each other. They stare at Fitz' computer screen, and he shakes his head. "I don't know. A sniper rifle might work."

"But too much room for error," he points out, eating his sandwich. He shakes his head and sighs. "Thanks, Fitz. For your input."

"Hey!" Fitz watches Grant stand up, his eyes wide. "What are you going to be doing, Ward?"

"My job," he answers.

"Please don't kill too many people."

Grant shrugs. "I'll try not to, but you know… It's hard with explosives."

"Ward!" he shouts, shaking his head. He once again glances at the door, checking whether or not it's closed. "You got to be—"

He shakes his head. "I know, Fitz. But this one. I have to make sure Quinn is dead. Very dead. Too dead to the point that he can't even be recognized. Otherwise, Whitehall is going to have my head and Bakshi has my job. He's been eyeing it for the last five years."

"Your job sucks," Fitz only replies.

"It's dirty. But someone has to do it," he points out. Then he goes into his office, throws away the sandwich wrapper, and picks up a toolbox. He comes back out into Fitz's work area and places the blue box on Fitz's desk. "Okay. This is the tools and pieces I've managed to get so far. I'm not sure how far you are at with your project…" He pauses, his eyes deliberately looking at Fitz's legs. Or lack of them. "But this should have enough plastic for the next stage."

"Ahh…" He opens the box and finds several packets of white powder. "Yes, this will definitely work for sure. Oh, and how soon can you get me some screws? But they are very hard to get. They must be deliberately…"

"Customized," finishes Grant. He looks towards the door and then shrugs. "I'll try to get them as soon as possible but with the assignment… I'll try to pick some up in Portland through a few of my contacts. How is my brother, Fitz?"

"Thomas?"

Grant nods.

"They are still watching him." Taking ahold of a white package, Fitz wheels himself over to the work lab and begins dumping the powder into a clear solution.

He sighs. "At least, Gamsie is dead. Died peacefully in her sleep."

Fitz doesn't make a single comment. "Good luck with the assignment."

"Thanks, Fitz."

* * *

Skye walks to the airport without a single care. A private plane is already waiting for her, and she finds a M39 EMR waiting in a brown box. A normal person would think the box is for roses. But it is not. It's for a sniper rifle and a pair of night goggles. Skye mantles it together and checks its scope. All good. She dismantles it and places it back into the box.

Just a rose box.

* * *

He doesn't eat. He doesn't drink. He steps off the airplane, and then a helicopter takes him close to the warehouse. Not too close, of course. He still needs to get a boat. A warehouse on the docks… Well, it provides Grant with an opportunity to use a speed boat.

Of course, he has most of it planned it.

Most of it.

Turning it on and pulling it out of its resting place, he drives it slowly and then check the fuel levels. It would suck horribly if he gets arrested with low fuel tanks. There is nothing more embarrassing than that.

Nothing.

* * *

Skye sits on her perch up the highest rooftop of neighboring warehouse. She has already made a few evacuation plans, including a kelvar cord that leads to another warehouse. One that is west of her. The FBI have already checked this place along with all other warehouses, but they should have stayed around.

Their fault.

Now, Ian Quinn is about to die.

She mantles the sniper rifle together. Then as the sun goes down, she places the night vision goggles over her head. She wiggles in her seat and wishes that she has a better chair. But hey, being an assassin means resting in an awful position and making the best out of it.

She waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Then a white truck pulls into her scope about one and three fourths of a mile away and she smiles. She whispers into her comms. "Alright, Mockingbird, it's Quake here. I have the van in sightings. Awaiting target's approach."

* * *

The speedboat rumbles loudly, stirring up the resting birds on the wood posts. Under the black sky, Grant pulls into the docks and then ties the speedboat to a post. He makes sure he has his pocketknife right in his pocket. Then he pops open a beer and watches the sky. He stretches a bit, steps onto the dock, and groans at the wet bird poop he accidently steps in.

"Oh, come on," he groans.

He wipes it on the ground, smearing it to the wood.

He glances at the warehouse and then notes its emptiness.

He waits.

It's almost time to kill someone.

* * *

She gasps at the rumbling noise of a speedboat. A man, maybe around six feet high, wears a neon green jacket and climbs onto the dock. A white baseball cap sets on his head, and he scruffs his foot against the dock.

She whispers into her comms, "Mockingbird, there is a problem. We have an unknown subject on the site." Making a split decision, she turns her sniper towards the intruding man. Her scope picks up the details she can't see with her eyes alone.

* * *

 **Oh, yeah. We're almost there. It's going to be hilarious... Hahahaha. Okay, as usual, I request you all to leave reviews. Words of... "Hey, you should do this or that better" or "Ward should be Hellfire." The usual.**


	13. Disaster

Her voice high and worried, Bobbi Morse replies, "I'm seeing this. Unknown subject arriving via speedboat. Northwest of you. Quake, it could be just someone stopping at the docks for a quick break."

"He's watching the road," points out Skye, her finger on the trigger. She waits carefully, and her eyes narrow in suspicion. She quickly pushes the night goggles up, just a little for adjustment. "He might not be a normal civilian."

* * *

Placing a pair of night visions that looks more like sunglasses over his eyes, Grant leans against the wood post and pretends to drink another gulp from his beer. He shakes his head at the warehouse, at where the FBI will be eventually stopping four hundred meters away. He says, "Fitz is right. Planting an explosion in the car is too difficult. Can't even get to the car without getting shot by over twenty federal agents, assuming if I even know which car he's in. A helicopter follows the car, and a few SUVs follow the trucks. So what do you do?"

He pauses, as if listening to someone.

But all he hears is the waves. And the wind. And the FBI's frequency in his earbud. Hydra does have friends in high places.

Watching but knowing the car is coming from the radio frequencies he's hearing in his ear, he continues, "A sniper rifle is a bit challenging to do with this wind. And when you have a total necessity to eliminate a target, you make sure you kill him. Make sure that he is very dead. And that is exactly what I'm doing." He litters, throwing the beer and its contents into the sea.

Then he moves back to the speedboat and unpacks a FGM-148 Javelin from its gray-green toolbox at the floor of the speedboat.

"And that is where the rocket launcher comes in," he mutters, lifting it up from its box. He hoists it over his shoulder.

* * *

Skye watches the man throw a beer can into the sea. Scowling, she murmurs, "Damn litterer threw his freaking can into the sea."

"What, Quake?"

"Nothing," answers Skye. Then she turns her sniper back to the van. Then back to rude unknown subject. "Mockingbird, what am I supposed to be doing here?"

Morse answers, "It looks like he's leaving, Quake."

"He better be."

Through the scope, she sees him lifting something cylinder out of the speedboat. The scope's computer system instantly registers the cylinder, and it blares out a red warning. A FGM-148 Javelin. A rocket launcher that is capable of delivering anti-tank missiles.

"Crap," she whispers, her hands' grip tighter on her rifle. "That's a rocket launcher! Mockingbird, we have another player on the field. Repeat, we have another player on the field."

"It looks like he's going to take care of Quinn," notices Morse.

A quick thought enters Skye's head. "Mockingbird, if he fires that rocket launcher, he's going to kill every single federal agent in the van. That even means our inside man."

"Shit," replies Morse.

* * *

Back on the docks, Grant adjusts the rocket launcher's position on his shoulder and then turns the night vision on for the scope. He finds the van coming down the road along with its followers. He mutters to himself, "Hmm… Could take them out right now. But… chances are I'll miss."

He waits. Then he takes a step to the side. Aiming.

And then, all of the sudden, he hears a single shot being fired.

The next thing, he's being forced back into the wood post. He collapses on the dock and groans. The bullet has hit the wood post right behind him, thankfully. Instead of him. Playing dead for a moment, he calculates the shooter's location.

Slightly southeast. Inner land. Maybe on the rooftop of a warehouse. The shooter is about seven hundred meters away. Perfect range for the launcher.

He searches for the shooter, and he finds a black glint on the rooftop.

Bingo.

* * *

Skye nods with satisfaction. "He's done, Mockingbird." She lingers on him for a few more seconds, but then sees him getting up in a smooth motion. She quickly backtracks. "Okay, maybe not. The subject is not dead." She watches him aim the rocket launcher at her.

"Oh, shit," she mouths. Then she drops the sniper rifle and jumps to the cord that'll take her to a nearby warehouse. She slides over the empty land below, and it is only a few seconds later when the entire warehouse behind her explodes. She grabs the cord and swings safely to the ground.

* * *

Grant covers his mouth with shock at the huge explosion before him. The entire warehouse has gone up in fire and smoke. He takes a long, lingering look at the rocket launcher and mutters, "Raytheon and Lockheed Martin _so_ should not sell these to people."

He then takes a look at the road. The vans and the FBI agents are already turning back. Away from here. The window of opportunity is lost.

He curses himself. "Damn it."

Then he notes a feminine figure running towards the vans. Towards the road. He pauses and then lifts the rocket launcher again. The scope zooms in on her, and he sees her run up the road and flee the scene with a white motorcycle.

He sighs. "At least, I know the shooter survived." He places the rocket launcher back into the speed boat and runs down to the warehouse where the shooter perched in her place. In the rubble of greenish bricks, he finds a sniper rifle partially in the flames. He kicks it out and takes a closer look at it.

It would make some decent evidence. Maybe he might be able to track her done.

* * *

"Mockingbird? Mockingbird?" She whispers into her comm and then stops about two miles away from the scene for a helmet underneath the seat. She plants it over her head and then dials Mockingbird using its phone feature. "Mockingbird? I'm safe."

"We didn't get the subject," says Morse. "The federal agents' security on the subject will be even tighter than ever. It will be impossible to get him. Nearly impossible."

"I know. I also want to know who that rocket launcher guy is," she sneers, scowling at herself. "Who brings a freaking rocket launcher? It's _overkill_."

* * *

 **I giggled to myself for five minutes at the last sentence.**

 **As usual, I send the call out to review. Thanks for reading. Stay tuned, stay tuned.**


	14. Search

"I want to find that son of a bitch," orders Skye.

In the conference room, Simmons hands Skye a shiny cell phone. Waving her hand in Skye's face, she says, "Skye, Skye. It's Coulson on the line."

Scooting forward in her backless stool, Skye reluctantly takes it and ignores the stares of her assistants. Wincing at the medic taking care of the burn wounds on her back, she raises the phone to her ears and greets, "Hello, DC."

"Skye," Coulson pauses. "I heard about the incident. Are you alright?"

"The explosion managed to get some of my hair. And my back. It burned through part of my cargo jacket," she answers, her expression grim.

"May is fine. Without a single scratch." She can tell that Coulson is grinning even though she didn't get the target crossed off.

She huffs, scowling. "The unknown subject brought a _rocket launcher_ , DC. A FGM-148 Javelin, which is usually and supposedly used only for the military." Shaking her head, she continues her rant. "Who is this guy? Who brings a ridiculous rocket launcher to, which I'm very much assuming, kill Quinn?"

"The good news is that he didn't use the rocket launcher on the entire team of federal agents, Quinn, and May herself," reminds Coulson. "I expect that you're attempting to find him?"

"Yes."

"Good." He adds, "Give my best wishes when you send him to hell."

"Of course, DC."

She ends the call.

Then another cell phone goes off. Morse goes to the corner of the conference room and picks up Skye's phone from the leather shoulder bag sitting on the ground. She slides it across the glass table, and Skye immediately picks it up. Wincing as the medic accidently presses against a section of very sensitive skin, she says, "Daisy Johnson."

"Hey, honey," replies Grant. "It turns out I'll be stuck in Canada. Paris is having some issues, and all the flights are going crazy. Unbelievable amounts of flight delays. Sorry I can't get back home sooner."

"That's alright." A sigh of relief. "I'm swamped at work. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he agrees.

* * *

Fitz and Grant looks over the details of the warehouse. Both of them are chewing down their sandwiches, and then Fitz speaks. "Who do you think it is?"

"A third party. It's definitely not the CIA," he answers, moving himself closer to the layout of the warehouses. He points to the dock where he stood at last night. "I was there. The sniper"—he moves his finger to the green sticker dot—"was there. We know how the vans were moving in last night. I also found the sniper's rifle." He goes into his office and picks up a long blue box. "I haven't touched it with my bare hands, but maybe you could find something that leads me to her."

"I'll see." Fitz picks up the box, places it in his lap, and wheels around to the wall and counters that is his workplace. He opens the box, puts on blue gloves, and places the sniper rifle on the counter. Raising his eyebrows slightly, Fitz explains, "This is a M39 EMR. It's a designated marksmen rifle. It is used by the United States Marine Corps. It's going to be hard to track down this one gun."

"Serial number?"

Fitz dismantles it and then runs a magnifying glass over where the serial number should be. He turns back to Grant and shakes his head. "It's been scrubbed off. But…"

"But what?"

"There are always ways to find out what the number was." He then drops the box on his desk and then moves the wheels of his chair down the counter. He suddenly stops. "Wait, Grant. Did you run a fingerprint scan over this rifle? Because there could always be—"

"Can you run it?"

Fitz sighs, scratching his hair. "I could. But it'll take some time."

"Not a problem. Oh," says Grant, going back into his office again. He drops a white box on Fitz's desk. "And these are the screws you asked for."

"Ah. Thanks." Then Fitz watches Grant leave. "Hey! Where are you going?"

"Finishing the job."

* * *

"It's probably Hydra. An agent from Hydra," says Morse, shuffling papers around. They watch the eerily green footage of the unknown subject. "Who else have that much to lose when someone like Quinn is blabbering his mouth off?"

"How many known Hydra agents are there?"

"Over four thousand."

Skye winces. "There has to be a way to cut this down. To narrow this down." She then moves around and takes a look at the footage for the first time. "Morse, you record this from last night?"

"Yep."

Skye nods. Then she steps closer to the screen and watches it. The subject's face is hidden by the baseball cap, but once he puts on the sunglasses, he holds his head up. In very slow motion, he hoists the rocket launcher at the gaggle of cars. Then he steps backwards and collapses against the wood post. Body, slack.

For a moment, it fools Skye. He looks very much like a dead corpse.

Then in a fluid motion, he stands up and aims the rocket launcher directly at the camera.

Skye notes, "He is good enough to tell where a bullet is coming from. Very accurate." Simmons moves over to the monitor, squishing up against Skye. She winces at the sudden pricks of pain. "Knows how to use a rocket launcher."

Setting a folder on the desk in front of Skye, Simmons jab her finger at the screen. "How many people even have access to a rocket launcher?"

"The military," Skye answers.

Simmons then points to the folder, tapping its cover. "Here's the data the Shield team collected from the ruins. It isn't much, but maybe it might help you a little?" She then moves away, walking out of the conference room.

Skye opens the folder. She begins reading through what details they have about the entire situation last night. It's the usual summary and background. She has read it all before. She finds the report about the aftermath of the entire disaster.

Her sniper rifle is still missing, and it seems that the unknown subject has left behind a beer can. It's still partially full with beer. But no DNA traces could be found on or in it. No fingerprints either. On the plus side, it's one less can in the ocean.

She turns her attention back on the footage and plays it slower this time. If she can't find out his identity, the least she can do is find out what sort of skills he has. She plays it again and again, but she can't help but notice how familiar the motions and actions seem to be.

She can't put her finger on it. But there is something about the way he moves that seems way too familiar. Like she has seen it before…

* * *

 **Yeah! Another chapter up. Skye's moving closer, and Grant is passing the job of finding the mysterious sniper to Fitz. Next chapter will only have Grant's POV.**

 **Stay tuned. And review!**


	15. Assassination

Grant Ward stares at the FBI skyscraper in Seattle, Washington. It has been two days since the nasty run in with the mysterious sniper. He shoves that mystery to the back of his head and focuses on the job at hand. He forgets how much he hates traveling back and forth between cities. Portland to NYC to Seattle. All in two days.

It's a good thing Hydra has access to fighter jets. Those jets can travel so fast between places. Where it would take five hours to travel between Portland to NYC, it would only be three hours. Two, if he hurries.

He narrows his eyes and then enters the FBI building wearing an excellent disguise. Where he was once Grant Ward, he is now a fresh-faced, baby-like college freshman working to kill his college debt. His red jacket looks baggy on his body, and the security briefly frisks him. They run him through the X-ray, but they don't pick up anything suspicious.

To the front desk, he says, "This is a pizza order. Five large pizzas. Orders go to someone named Simon Martin." He smiles at the receptionist and winks at her for a good measure.

She laughs and then dials up a number.

He places the pizzas on the counter.

Staring at Grant, the woman then covers the phone's mouthpiece and whispers, "Leave the pizza here. They'll send someone to pick them up."

"And the payment?" He adds an edge of grievance. Make it a little more believable, he knows. The college boy wants to be paid.

She nods. "Of course." Then she reaches for her own purse and pulls out the correct amount of cash. Then she adds in ten percent of it for tip. "Thank you."

"No problem." He flashes her another quick grin, rudely counting the cash in front of her. "Hey, is there a bathroom I could use?"

She points down the lobby and gestures to a clearly labeled men's room. "The bathroom is over there. Have a nice afternoon."

"You too." He then heads to the bathroom.

* * *

In the bathroom stall, he changes quickly from a pizza man to a federal agent. He takes off the red jacket and stuffs it into the pizza carrier. Then he pulls down his red polyester pants to reveal black slacks. He rips away the blond wig to reveal a bald head. For a good measure, he slips in blue eye contacts and strips away the fake prosthetics to reveal a scruffy jaw. He flushes down the prosthetics in the toilet and then steps outside with the pizza carrier in his arms.

All clear. No one is in here.

He quickly goes to the trash can and stuffs the carrier into the trash. Then he pulls a bunch of paper from the paper dispenser and stuffs it over the trash. He shoves it all down, fixes the trash can's cover, and washes his hand just as a federal agent walks in. It'll be a while until the janitor comes by to empty out the trash.

"Morning," he greets cheerfully.

"Morning," the agent says back.

As he leaves, he catches a look of himself in the mirror. A fifty-year old bald man with white-black scruff. Too rotund around the stomach for his own good. He forces his back to stoop a little and then walks with the slightest limp in his right foot.

From the intelligence Fitz gathered, Quinn is most likely on the seventh floor. Of course, it would be greatly risky to outright attack him. Or blow up the entire building itself. Too many people here, too many chances for this going wrong.

Also, Whitehall will have his head if he draws too much attention to Hydra. His ear is already abused from what Whitehall's assistant has been telling him the other day.

No rocket launchers.

But still make sure that Quinn is very dead.

He steps into the elevator, and no one really looks at him. He is just another person in the sea of federal agents dressed in suits. He reaches the seventh floor, pauses to glance at the rows of cubicles, and then lifts a clipboard from a cubicle. He moves with purpose, and no one cares about him.

He walks down the halls and pretends to read the clipboard. From the brief glance at it, it's about someone's shopping day. Winter coats, shoes, boots, and kitten heels. He goes to the secured area, to where the temporary office is used for Quinn's imprisonment.

It takes about two hours for Hydra to find a complete layout of the entire building. The leading federal agent—John Smith, controlling all aspects of the Quinn case—works on the seventh floor, and it makes sense for him to keep Quinn close at hand. The corner office of the seventh floor is one of the five offices that are empty in the entire building according to the personnel list. If he isn't here, then Grant will have to check all other ones.

Which increases the chances of getting caught.

He nods at the guard standing in front of door. The federal agent raises his hand at him and says, "What are you here for?"

"I need to get him to write a statement," he lies easily, impatiently tapping on the clipboard. He raises his hands and says, "Look, do you want to do my job?"

"Good luck," merely replies the guard, opening the door.

Grant walks in, and in the center of the room is Ian Quinn, handcuffed to the chair. Legs and arms. His gray suit is rumpled, and the shirt is slightly bloodied. Probably from some beatings or rough treatments. Bored, he merely looks at Grant and says, "Come to ask me a few more questions? I have already told you everything I know. If you are here to beat me up…"

"The Gravitonium," asks Grant, gritting his teeth. His voice is higher than usual, disguised enough to the point Quinn can't recognize him. "Where is it?"

Quinn rolls his eyes. "As if I'll tell you."

"I could always beat it out of you." Grant unbuttons his cuffs and pushes his sleeves up. "Do you want to comply now?"

At the word _comply_ , Quinn looks up with absolute terror. "No…" he whispers, his face immediately paling. "But how?"

Grant grips his armrests. "Where is the Gravitonium?" A pause. Then he enunciates, " _Comply_."

"Los Angeles," he stammers.

Grant narrows his eyes. "We'll see if you're telling the truth." Then Grant, in a quick motion, grabs Quinn's neck and begin to squeeze. Once Quinn stops fighting and moving, he twists his neck and snaps it. That will, for sure, kill Quinn.

Assuming he hasn't died of asphyxiation already.

Grant then straightens himself and steps out of the room. He nods at the guard, shuts the door completely, and then shakes his head. "I can't get anything useful out of him."

"Bad luck, I guess," replies the guard.

"Yep," he agrees. Then he walks down the hallways. Through the glass windows, he finds an empty office. He opens the door labeled Shu Wong, lowers the blinds, and takes off his suit jacket. In a simple blue shirt, he looks around the office, searches through the desk, and finds a baton.

He shrugs, testing its weight.

Eh. It'll work.

At the windows behind him, he spins and whacks the window. The baton goes through, and the alarms go off. He winces, but he continues breaking the glass through. Then he jumps out of the window.

He pulls at the tag, and a black parachute comes out behind him.

He glides towards a nearby building and makes his escape.

* * *

In the parking lot empty of anyone, he begins stripping himself of the federal agent disguise. The blue shirt—which is really a parachute—is detached from his body. He goes into the car parked in the alleyway, wearing only a loose tank top. He drives away casually for two miles.

Not a single worry.

After all, Fitz disabled all the traffic cams in a five miles radius.

* * *

Stopping at a safe house two miles away from the federal building, he enters the garage and begins stripping away the rest of the prosthetics. The bald cap comes off, and the clothes come off. He puts on a leather jacket and leather pants.

He puts the evidence in a neat pile. Then he starts putting together some detacord together, linking them from the kitchen to a radio receiver. He does the same thing for the car, too.

He climbs onto a motorcycle and breathes in and out.

He's almost done.

Now, it's time to make a man disappear into the wind.

Or into the flames.

He plants his helmet on and drives away.

Goodbye.

When he's at a safe distance, he pushes a button on his motorcycle. The house blows up in flames, and there is a second explosion. First one is for the kitchen.

The second one is the car itself.

Benzene fire. It'll burn everything to the ground until there is nothing left. Firefighters can only contain it and watch the house crumble to ashes.

* * *

 **Exactly what I promised you all! We're moving closer to the big showdown between Skye and Grant. It's all going to burn...**

 **Stay tuned. Stay tuned. (And review!)**


	16. Investigation

Although Skye has several other assignments to work on, she can't quite get the rocket launcher guy out of her head. It whispers from the back of her head, even while she kills a corrupted senator in his bedroom. She easily escape from his security guards, but she can't seem to figure out this one problem.

A little after lunchtime, she heads back to the office and continues looking at the angles. She thinks, what am I missing here? She plays the footage again.

Simmons comes running into her office, her face red and her brown hair in her eyes. "Skye, Skye! You better come and listen to this!"

Without a single word, Skye takes off to the conference room.

A federal agent, who is completely unaware of Shield listening in on the conversation, sits gloomy at the head of the table. Skye finds Melinda May at his right, and she, with relief, notices how unharmed she looks. Safe. Completely safe.

John Smith, the leading agent on the Ian Quinn case, says, "As we all know very well, Ian Quinn is dead. In this very building, at exactly eight fifteen this morning, an unknown subject came in. Pretending to be a pizza delivery boy."

Skye calculates the time. That would mean Ian Quinn died at some time after eleven fifteen in New York City's time. New York is ahead of Washington by three hours. Quinn died while Skye was taking care of the US Senator.

"The timeline is this," explains John, gesturing to a sheet of paper in front of him. "At eight fifteen, the pizza boy bypasses security. No guns, no weapons. Nothing suspicious. At eight thirty, he enters the lobby's bathroom and comes out dressed as a federal agent."

Simmons hands Skye a thick folder. She flips through it and finds a white man in a pizza man's outfit walking by security. The cameras have also picked up a picture of him dressed as a bald man. He is old now, maybe fifty or sixty years old. A good master of disguise, notes Skye.

John continues, "He goes up in elevator one and goes to the seventh floor. The guard doesn't take much note of him and lets him into Quinn's holding room. He strangles Quinn. After Quinn is dead, he snaps his neck. Two minutes later, he comes back out. He walks a bit down the hallways and into Wong's office." He points to May. "He uses a baton in Wong's office to break the windows. That sets off the alarms. Then he base jumps and lands about sixty meters away in an empty parking lot. We don't know where he goes from there. The traffic cameras were conveniently offline at that time."

Skye taps her chin, narrowing her eyes. A hacker, too?

"But a 911 call came to the fire station at ten-oh-one," adds Agent Smith, his brown eyes looking at every single one of his agents. "Benzene fire at a suburban house miles away from here. Firefighters were able to contain it, but they were unable to stop the fire. The house burned to the ground. We have found a dead body in the ashes."

Skye straightens up, but her eyes narrow even more.

"The body is much degraded, but we will be working on identifying the corpse. Right now, we can see that it is about five foot ten and probably weighs—"

"It's not him," interrupts Skye. "Quinn's killer is still alive."

* * *

He flies back to New York in a fighter plane. The pilot from the US Air Force in front of him easily courses his way through the sky, and they make good time.

His mind goes back to the mysterious sniper.

* * *

"This is overkill," mutters Skye, sitting down in her chair. She spins around and around, the folder in her hands. "Benzene? Strangling Quinn and then breaking his neck? Going through at least two disguises?"

Simmons sits across from her, her hands typing quickly on the tablet. "I have managed to narrow down the known list of Hydra agents. Obviously, this killer—"

"Is the same killer in Portland," finishes Skye, putting her foot on the ground. She stops spinning and faces Simmons, combing her hands through her hair. "Master of disguises, a man good at killing people to the point he kills them ten times over, capable of using a rocket launcher, can calculate where a sniper is located at after a single shot, and is most definitely a Hydra agent."

Simmons stares at her. A pause. "Yes. Exactly that."

"I want to kill him," she grits, clenching her teeth together. "At least, he didn't kill anyone else while eliminating Quinn."

"The dead body at the house."

"Right," she says. "Two people dead. Two bodies. How many Hydra agents are capable of all of this crap? And please don't tell me—"

"None," she answers. At Skye's shocked face, Simmons quickly add, "Shield doesn't have enough data on some of these agents. There are a few agents that do indeed match the profile you set up but not perfectly."

"Well, give me their names."

"Well…" Simmons clears her throat and begins to read the names. "A former Hydra agent named Agent 33. But the profile doesn't match exactly, because…"

"Because?"

"He's a woman."

"Oh. Then it's obviously not her," says Skye, nodding. Then she thinks again. "Unless she went under a sex change. Who is next on that list?"

"An assassin named the Winter Soldier," answers Simmons, shaking her head. "But it's likely not him, because the Winter Soldier isn't very good at disguises."

Skye sits forward. "Then what is he good at?"

"Sniper rifles. High resistance against pain. One of his latest hit was in Russia, about three hours ago," answers Simmons, planting the tablet on Skye's glass desk. "So I don't think so."

"Alright. Who is next?"

"General Jones," replies Simmons. "An African American man—"

"Yeah. That's not him."

"But if he is really good at disguises—"

"Yeah, General Jones may be that killer. But General Jones hasn't showed his face ever since what happened in Calgary," reminds Skye, shaking her head. "I doubt he'll be popping back up unless he is really desperate. Remember how nasty Hydra was? Trying to search for him in the haystacks? They burned several buildings and killed a lot of innocents. They won't willingly work with him. Unless they really have to."

Simmons thinks for a moment. Then she nods. "I get your point."

"And he won't work with Hydra anymore." A pause. "Next person?"

* * *

Back in New York City, Grant listens to Fitz's monologue on the sniper rifle.

"I found a partial print on the hand guard. Not much, but maybe you might be able to find something?" Fitz hands him a flash drive. "The print is in there. Anyway, I have actually found the serial number on the sniper. Takes some time to figure out the numbers, but I tracked it down. The sniper is registered to a P.O. Box in New York City. I have no idea where it goes after that, but maybe you'll be able to find something."

"Thanks, Fitz."

He nods. Then he adds offhandedly, "Try not to kill any innocent bystanders."

He raises his eyebrow. "I promise I'll try not to. But when I'm up against another assassin, it could get really ugly, Fitz."

"I know, I know. Someone has to do this job."

* * *

Skye glances at the footage once again. She has wasted about two and a half hours, just trying to figure out where this assassin is at instead of figuring out _who_ this assassin is.

She pauses the footage. Right as the assassin rubs his shoe against the docks. She replays that motion again, and a memory comes to her. A simple sandal rubbing sand off on the concrete. Back in Hawaii. Back in the days when Skye's marriage was good and happy.

Then Skye's phone rings.

* * *

 **Boo, ya! Another chapter is done. And we are inching closer... So close. So close! I just can't wait for everyone to really _see_ the truth. **


	17. Tracks

Running the print is easy. Even though it's a partial one, it has one hit. He tracks it down to an agent named Quake, working for Shield. A very good assassin, and he reads her profile. It isn't much, but at least, he'll be better prepped to go up against her.

 **Name: N/A**

 **Codename: Quake**

 **Affiliation: S.H.I.E.L.D.**

 **Occupation: Assassin**

 **Years Active: 2008-Present**

 **Known Skills: Hand to Hand Combat, Expert Marksmen, Multilingualism [Mandarin, English, Spanish, French, Finnish, Danish, etc.], Expert Tactician**

 **Possible Associates: Phil Coulson [Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.]**

He notes the thinness of the file. Too little information and not enough known about her. But… It's a good thing to know that Shield is involved. It brings a little more to light. And he already is thinking of what he could expect from Shield.

He steps out of his office, bides farewell to Fitz, and then drives all the way to the post office. Time to track her down.

He makes sure he brings his guns.

The post office does have a record of who owns the P.O. Box, but it is all closed system. He goes through the back, wearing a fake postman's uniform that he stole from the back of someone's car. It fits loosely on him, but he doesn't care. He needs information.

And he will find it.

He passes by postmen in uniforms, and he finds a room labeled ARCHIVES. There it is. He types on the computer surrounded by heaps of paper files and searches for the owner of P.O. Box 14b.

Finds it.

It lists a somewhat familiar address to a skyscraper. He steps out of the post office, and no one sees him. Not a single person. He walks out, strips out of the postman's outfit, and drives away in his car. The address wobbles around in his head.

He stops about two miles away from the tower.

Parcens Tower.

It's time. Grant hails a yellow taxi cab and walks to the front of the tower, viewing it from all angles. Nearby skyscrapers aren't as high, but he could climb Parcens Tower to get in from the top. He is already sending Fitz to download the layout of the entire building.

He enters through the front door.

Damn. Security guards. It's even worse than the FBI building. Over there, guards have an MRI to scan through every single person's belongings. He runs his eyes over to the security cameras and quickly looks down, hoping facial recognition doesn't catch him. He bends down to tie his shoe and continues counting the guards.

Fifteen. An MRI. A bunch of guns.

Security is more than tight. It's claustrophobic.

This is definitely the right place.

He finds a directory stand and begins to type in the address to Shield's offices. Looking very busy, he glances around and then turns his attention back to the touchscreen.

There, it blares out this:

 **CYBER-TECH SECURITY FIRM, CEO: DAISY JOHNSON.**

 **LOCATED ON 13, 14, 15, 16, 17 FLOORS.**

 **CYBER-TECH IS DEDICATED TO—Read more.**

He tears his eyes away from the directory and quickly walks out. His thoughts quickly run, and he can't believe it. He can't believe it. He can't believe anything at all. Because… his wife…

He steps outside of the building and shakenly dials her number.

* * *

The phone rings. ROBOT CALLING, the screen reads.

Skye's heart skips a beat. Robot… Grant… It can't be. It seriously can't be. She then flips back to her old memories of Grant's physical appearance and compares it to the assassin.

Her hands shake as she reaches for her phone.

"Daisy Johnson," she says, pleased that her voice doesn't crack at all. "Hey, Grant. What's up?"

"I'm back in the States. Finally," he replies, sounding slightly cheerful. "The client in Paris is nervous after all those attacks, but I'll be coming home right now. Dinner at seven?"

"I'm on my way home. Dinner at seven."

"Good." Then he ends his call.

"You're going home? At this time?" Standing at the doorway of Skye's office, Simmons shakes her head. "Skye, we need you here right now. Not at home where—"

She raises her hand. "I can't explain this, right now. Simmons, I seriously have to go home." She puts on her black pea coat and shivers.

She can't believe it.

It's probably nothing… But…

She then steadies herself as she rides the elevator down. She must do a few tests. Something to test him. Something that a Hydra agent would react to, but what a normal person wouldn't.

* * *

Grant makes his way home first. He comes to an empty house, and he disappears into the kitchen. His hands quickly work the bread and begins to cook. He washes vegetables and furiously chop through celery with vigor. His mind repeats the same sentence, as if it would ward away the possibility of his wife being… An assassin.

 _It can't be possible._

 _It can't be possible._

He sets up the candles, and he pulls out the fold-up table used only in very special occasions. He places a white cloth over it, and he begins laying out the plates.

The work in front of him can't seem to quiet his thoughts.

* * *

Skye drives into the garage, already finding the black sedan parked. Her heart jumps, and she quickly pulls out a throwing knife hidden underneath the car seat.

Then she pauses.

No. That would definitely scare Grant.

So she puts it back in and begins to crack her knuckles. She rolls her neck around clockwise and then counterclockwise. She steps out of the car, smelling the gentle aroma of garlic bread.

Grant… cooking?

She runs out of the garage, pushes the button outside of the garage, and watches it close. She leans low as she quickly strolls to the front door of the house. A walker, Mindy Peterson, calls out, "Hey, Skye! How are you doing today?"

Crap.

She straightens up and nervously tries not to glance at the windows. "Oh, hey, Mindy! I'm doing very well. I forgot to mention how much fun I had at your Thanksgiving party."

"It's no biggie!" she replies back, leaning against the picket fence. "But don't forget the garden party on Wednesday. I would love to see you there!"

"I'll bring a gift if I have time." She chuckles, reaching for the front door. Then she waves her hand. "Bye, Mindy! I'll try to see you later."

"Bye, Skye."

The door opens before Skye, and in front of her is a tall man with a wide smile. In a nicely pressed suit without a tie, Grant holds his hands out and greets, "Hello, Skye."

She walks in and closes the door behind her. She pulls off her pea coat and eyes her husband's suit. It's a two-buttoned suit jacket with black slacks. No telltale budges for guns or knives or weapons. Doesn't mean he isn't armed to the teeth. His black hair is styled gently, and there is a light in his eyes that she hasn't seen a long time.

She doesn't like it.

It's too… Out of the ordinary.

"You're early," she breathes.

"You're on time," he replies.

* * *

 **Hell, yeah! Another chapter completed. And we're getting closer...**

 **Hahaha... This is going to be delicious.**


	18. Test

She narrows her eyes at her surroundings. What used to be a safe haven is now a dangerous warzone. A very foreign warzone. She makes her way to the living room where a table has been set up with candles and a white cloth. Her heart skips a beat for a moment, but she steadies herself.

It's romantic.

But it's also a warzone, she reminds herself. And it is the worst one she has to face. Mostly, because she has never expected a threat in Grant.

"Grant, you did all of this for me?"

"I missed you," he says.

"I missed you too," she replies.

"Sit down," he says, pulling out a chair. She does, and he wraps himself around her. He reaches towards the plates, the utensils, and the wine glasses.

She tries not to stiffen.

Smoothly, he places a napkin on her lap and kisses the top of her head. Grant then heads into the kitchen, and Skye quickly glances around.

She spies a bottle of stain remover partially hidden underneath the armchair Grant is always sitting in. She slowly swallows and slowly breathes in. Then out.

That particular brand of stain remover is known to be poisonous.

And lethal, if eaten.

She quickly looks down at her empty plate and grips the nearest utensil she catches. A fork. She imagines attacking Grant with it, and a feeling of ridicule rises within in. She quickly places it back down and breathes in and out. Just a coincidence. Just a coincidence.

Nothing at all.

She turns towards the kitchen's doorway and calls out, "Grant, do you need any help? Because I'm the one who usually—"

"Skye," he calls back, most definitely smiling. "Skye, you don't need to a thing. Just sit and relax. I got this thing down." And he comes out the kitchen with a silver platter. Grinning broadly at her, he places it right in middle of the table and reveals a beautiful pot roast. He sets aside the lid and then sits across from her.

"Pot roast," she realizes, drooling a bit even though the back of her mind is loudly screaming _poison_. "My favorite. And you cooked it?"

He raises his eyebrow. "What? Gamsie taught me a lot of things. Including cooking pot roast for Thanksgiving dinner. Besides, I know that you have been working hard and I think you deserve a break."

She narrows her eyes. "Who are you and what have you done to my husband?"

He cracks a grin, and for once, she is reminded of the beginning of their marriage. Back in the times of good days and weekends of sleeping in without a second though. Back in the times Shield doesn't call her to work every weekday and weekend. Even the holidays.

But as soon as Grant pulls out a knife, Skye's stomach drops. She quickly stands up and places her hand over his. In a low and husky but also sexy voice, she says, "I'll do it." A pause. "You have already been working hard. I have been spending time with my parents and acting as a buffer between them. You have been making this from scratch and cooking it ten times better than I can."

He lets go of the glinting knife and sits down, watching her cut. He looks up at her, wearing a smile on his face. "How was your father? He doesn't have cancer, right?"

"Perfectly fine," she answers, cutting the pot roast. "Mom worries too much, but I think it's a good thing. Eventually, she'll know when my dad is really having trouble. How was work?"

"Problems. Everywhere," he replies, reaching across the table for a bottle of wine. He pops it open and pours Skye some blood red wine. "The Paris branch is flashing red lights everywhere, and I can't wrap my head around it. But it turns out there is another problem in Portland. It just popped up out of nowhere."

Sitting back down and reluctantly releasing the knife, Skye reaches for the wine and very casually inquires, "Portland?"

"A double-booking," says Grant, pouring wine for himself.

A pause. "Really?" replies Skye, suddenly feeling faint.

"Yes." He nods, sipping the tiniest bit of wine from his glass. "One of my clients just happened to book with two separate companies at the same time. It's a bit… explosive at the office, you can say."

"So…" She takes a slow drink from her glass. "Is the problem solved?"

"Not yet. But I'm sure I'll take care of it." Grant sets his glass down and then begins passing out the pot roast. He smiles at her, but her suspicions immediately rise and this time, she doesn't squash any of it down. "I realized I never asked. How was your work?"

"Some problems, too. Something doesn't add up in the booking," answers Skye.

"Uh-huh," he replies.

Keeping his dark brown eyes on her, he takes a bite out of his pot roast, and Skye breathes out a little bit. Maybe, it isn't poisoned. She carefully takes a bite, and she resists a groan.

She has forgotten how delicious Grant's cooking is.

"You don't want any salt with that?" quips Grant.

She clenches her fork. She resists the urge to start a cold fight and sweetly replies, "No. It's absolutely perfect. I'm starting to see the answer to a problem."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Oh," she repeats, a bit softly now.

He narrows his eyes and then stands up. Then he heads back into the kitchen, and Skye nervously looks around for any possible weapons. Fork, check. Knife, check. And if she is really desperate, maybe she can rip off the table cloth and throw it at—

"Skye," he whispers, holding a box. He hands it to her, opens the box for her, and says, "I was driving around the shopping district, and I saw this dress. I know I suggested that I dislike your hair, but I totally support your decision for a brand new wardrobe."

"Grant?" She raises her eyebrow and covers her mouth at the midnight black dress laying before her. She pulls it out and eyes its quality. Really good, and it's surprising that Grant saw it in the first place. A pretty minidress with thick straps. She takes the box from him and narrows her eyes. "Okay, seriously. Who are you and what have you done to my husband?"

"You should try it on."

Nodding, she goes upstairs and quickly changes in the walk-in closet. She quickly glances up at the white Chanel box on the top shelf of the closet, steps up the nearby chair, and begins reaching up for the gun hidden—

"Skye?"

Skye quickly turns around, and she finds his eyes on her back—well, the part that is visible. The back covered with bandages thanks to burn scars.

With eyes full of concern, he asks, "Where did you get that?"

"I accidently fell at work," she says, lying completely. She steps down from her stool. She moves closer to him, her high heels putting her closer to his height.

"Fell on what?" he whispers, their lips just inches away from each other. His eyes hold her locked in a strange, woozy spell. "Because most people don't fall on their backs."

"Well, I'm not most people," she replies.

A pause.

Then with a bittersweet look in his eyes, Grant says, "I'm beginning to see that now."

* * *

Downstairs, Grant listens carefully as Skye wiggles around in her chair. He carries out the small cake he has baked for the two of them and places it right in front of her. Once again, he pulls out the knife—which is very nasty thanks to his recent round of sharpening. She stiffens slightly, and he is ten times more suspicions than ever.

She knows, he thinks. She knows.

He places the knife down and walks towards where the remaining pot roast sits. On the coffee table. In a fluid motion, he picks it up, spins around, and throws it an inch away from Skye's head.

It spins in the air, slowly.

Skye is glancing down, examining the cake and seemingly not aware of the knife coming towards her. Then in a flash, her right hand comes up. Two fingers catch the knife by its blade, and she doesn't even look up.

Then she does, glancing at her own hand.

With horror, she drops it to the floor. Then knocking over the entire table over and ruining the cake, she quickly stands up and says, "Oh, I'll get a towel."

"No, I'll get it," replies Grant. They quickly depart in two separate directions. And while he runs towards the bedroom, his thoughts can't help but race one after the other.

He quickly realizes, his wife—the sniper—aimed for his head.

Part of him can't help but scream, I knew she was going to kill me one day.

Just not in this way.

* * *

 **I apologize to everyone for not updating yesterday. Yesterday was a total hell for me. (Blame this annoying lab report I have to write.) But today, I'm back! So yay!**


	19. Shock

Upstairs, he pulls out a gun hidden in a hollow book of a small bookshelf in the corner. He's the only one who would touch any of the books, mostly because Skye prefers ebooks to physical books. He takes out a silencer and a handgun. Then he shoves the book back into the shelf and begins to slowly move down the stairs.

He calls out, "Honey…?"

Grant's heart beats slowly. Calmly.

Yet, he can't help but feel as if he's running a very dangerous marathon. Of life or death. He slowly moves towards the kitchen and slips inside. No one is there.

Then he hears the garage door open.

Crap, he thinks.

Then he heads to the front door and makes it just in time to see Skye driving in her white sedan. She takes a nasty right turn and quickly begins to drive.

"Skye!" he yells.

He huffs and then begins running towards his neighbor's house across the street. He hops over the fence, runs through the backyard, climbs over the barbed fence, and makes it just in time to see Skye's car passing by again. Holding the gun in his hand, he continues running and cutting through the neighbors' yards.

This time, he manages to make it to the street before Skye does. He times the jump and lands up top of Skye's car. He looks through the car window and yells, "Skye, we seriously need to talk! I get that you're upset, but—"

Then the wipers begin to move. He removes his hold on the car.

He claws the top of the car, trying to gain any amount of grip he can get. Desperately, he clings to the roof rack as Skye attempts to shake him off. Then the car stops swerving, and Skye screams, "You bastard!"

"Skye, you're overreacting!" he yells back.

* * *

Skye drives like a madwoman, trying to shake Grant off the roof. Unfortunately, she has roof racks. She curses herself and just berates herself for giving into Mindy and getting roof racks so she could go biking every two weeks or so by the sea.

She stops swerving and hollers, "You bastard!"

But he manages to reply back. "Skye, you're overreacting!"

She breathes out and floors it. Overreacting? Overreacting? She wipes away a tear at her eyes and whispers, "He lied to me. He lied to me. He lied to me."

First of all, Grant fired a freaking rocket launcher at her. Sure, she has shot a bullet at him with a sniper rifle, but he…

Ugh! There's no words to really describe what buttons Grant is pushing. And now, they are in a huge hellhole. Grant is on top of her car with a gun in his hands. She is driving nowhere, and Coulson expects her to take care of the Hydra assassin sent after Quinn.

She turns towards a bridge in the middle of construction and then at the last second, she rolls out of the car and watches the car go off the bridge with Grant still on top of it. And surprisingly, he still manages to let out a few more words as he disappears from her view.

"We need to talk!"

She lets out a breath.

There. Problem solved. Hopefully.

But she has a feeling that it probably won't be.

* * *

Walking about a mile towards a familiar house, he knocks on the door. He ignores the drops of blood coming from the scratch on his head and the scrapes on his knees. He also ignores the fact that's he is dripping water all over Mama Triplett's red tulips that she has been lovingly taken care of for the last thirty or so years.

Wearing blue pajamas with a nightcap, Antoine Triplett opens the door, takes a long look at Grant, and asks, "What happened to you?" And the sight doesn't even faze him.

"My wife," he answers, barging in.

* * *

Jemma Simmons, coming to the office at the off-hours, has her jaw open so long flies should be arriving any time soon. "Okay," she says, swaying slightly. "Say that again. Tell it to me from the top."

* * *

At the breakfast table, Grant Ward wipes himself off with a towel and then attends to his cut in Trip's mother's hand mirror. All while answering Trip's many questions.

Finally, Trip says, "But that's nearly impossible. Implausible."

* * *

"Seriously. The chances of that happening must be at least one in a billion," says Simmons, shaking her head. Her eyes brighten up, and she notes, "Fitz could probably create a program for that. He could probably solve it, if I call him—"

Then Simmons stops.

Skye quickly glances away. "Yeah…"

Threading her fingers together, Simmons quietly point out, "Do you think it's possible that Grant might know where Fitz is? Fitz has been taken by Hydra, but if we could get our hands on Grant…"

"Then we can get Fitz back," finishes Skye.

* * *

"Consider it," says Trip. "What are the chances of that happening?"

Grant shakes his head, covering up his cut with a bandage. He crushes the wrappers and notes, "Well, it happened."

"So she was doing this from the start?"

Grant considers it. He thinks of the Colonel he has never killed. The one he was supposed to kill but never needed to. "I can't believe that woman."

A pause.

Then Trip says, "How many people do you think she has killed?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, do you think she's killed more than you?" Then Trip smiles and considers it. "She has definitely killed more than you. Look at you. The director of the Special Operations Department at Hydra. She's probably an assassin. Has much more time than you do. At least, she doesn't have to babysit and train any of the newbies."

He sighs. "Trip, please."

Another moment of silence.

Then bringing the beer bottle to his lips, Trip wonders, "How did she manage to keep it from you? After five or six years of marriage?"

"Lots of couples have secrets."

He snorts. "Look, when I compare your problems to other couples' problems, I see a little mouse in their house while I see a freaking elephant in yours."

* * *

 **Whee... Once again, I finish another chapter. I'm starting to make up what I didn't do yesterday. Wow, wow, wow, wow. Done for the day, but once again, I ask you all to leave your comments and reviews below. Because I always love hearing opinions.**


	20. Session 4

He wipes at his eyes and then sits down in the chair across from Dr. Andrew Garner. He then straightens and sighs. "Thank you for seeing me at a strange hour. A very strange hour."

"It may be midnight, but if it's an emergency, I'll most certainly help you," says Andrew, opening his file on Grant and Skye. He uncaps his ballpoint pen and begins to scratch a few notes— _Grant, coming to see me at midnight after a fight_. "Okay. So you and Skye had a fight? Want to tell me what happened?"

"Well…" Grant pauses. "I came here, because I can't sleep. My wife… I found out her secret. A very, very big secret."

Andrew continues writing and then he pauses. He doesn't dare to look up, but he wonders if Skye finally told Grant about her job at Shield. Or maybe, Grant accidently found out about it. He prompts, "Start from the beginning. Let it all out."

"Has your wife ever tried to kill you?"

Andrew looks up, planting his chin on his palm. "Literally or figuratively? Because if you're saying literally, then I will immediately recommend you to someone who much more specialized in domestic viol—"

Grant cuts him off. "Well, it's really complicated." He then sighs and shrugs. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. Not at all. She wants to kill me, and I sometimes want to kill her. But I don't really want to kill her. What do you call that?"

A pause. Then Andrew answers, "Marriage."

"But do you still call it marriage after a crazy disaster? It's all about the jobs. My job, her job. Too many problems, and I can't see anything straight anymore. What should be impersonal is now personal." He pauses. "My work is threatening my marriage with Skye. And Skye… Well, sometimes, I feel like she really wants to shoot me in the face. With a nail gun. We have so many problems in our marriage that… I'm starting to wonder if it is worth fighting for."

"Do you want to be with Skye?"

"Yes," he answers, without a single second for hesitation. "I think it's the question of whether or not Skye wants to be with me. Two hours ago, she tried to run me down with her car."

Andrew stares at him, narrowing his eyes. For a brief second, Andrew considers whether or not Grant is telling the truth. But… It's Skye. She wouldn't run her husband down with a car unless he did something that really pissed her off. So he writes it off as an exaggeration and pointedly glances at Grant. He speaks when Grant is paying all of his attention towards him. "Look, Grant. Every marriage has issues. Big or small. It doesn't matter. But if you want this marriage to survive and thrive, you have to work on it. Communication is always the key to a healthy marriage."

Grant looks up to the ceiling and mutters, "I'm not sure if we are going down the right path." He glances back at Andrew and shakes his head, waving his hand. "I think we're going down a horrible road. And it's the kind of road that ends with one of us being… too degraded to even be recognized by dental records."

"Excuse me?" This time Andrew really raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

Clearly switching to another subject, Grant sits back and says, "Today, I found out something about my wife. Something that she has hid from me."

"And what is that exactly?"

"Portland," he answers, huffing a sigh.

Andrew frowns, but he motions Grant to continue. He hasn't heard anything about Portland or anything like that and makes a mental note to keep a strong track on Skye. He figures that he could listen until he knows exactly what's going on between Skye and Grant. There is something Grant is not telling him, and it's probably something… either disastrous or embarrassing.

"We crossed each other's paths in Portland. I didn't expect her there, and she didn't expect me there. Of course, I lied to her and told I was going to be in Paris. While she told me that she was going to be at her parents' house. So we crossed paths, and I guess… everything exploded between us, and the lies are just…" A pause, and then he picks a chosen word. "Collapsing."

"What did Skye find out?"

"She found out that I was lying to her. For many years."

Andrew squints, his pen poised over Grant's file. "Cheating?"

Interestingly, Grant sighs. "I wish it is that simple." Then he stands up and walks towards Andrew, holding out his hand. Andrew takes it, puzzlement coming to him as he tries to figure out the mess of information Grant gives him. Skye's husband says, "Thank you for listening on a very weird hour. I'm sorry for coming in right now."

"That's not a problem." Then Andrew lets go of Grant's hand. "But if you need an ear, you should know that my door is always open. Don't worry. I'll be here."

"Thank you."

* * *

Once Grant is gone from Andrew's office, Andrew picks up the phone and begins to dial Coulson. Coulson picks up after two rings.

"Andrew Garner," he says.

"Andrew," says Coulson, probably smiling as he speaks each word. "How can I help you at this very strange hour? Isn't it midnight in New York City?"

"It is." Then Andrew picks up Grant's file and squints at the notes he made. "Can you tell me why Skye was in Portland? Because I suspect that Grant has accidently found out about Skye's job."

"Umm… Let me see." A pause. Then the Director of Shield replies, "Well, Skye was in Portland to eliminate Ian Quinn. He was a known Hydra associate. Used to fund the group until they had a bad falling out. He was recently terminated by an unknown Hydra agent. Why?"

"Apparently, Grant and Skye ran into each other in Portland." Then pinching the bridge of his nose, Andrew says, "Thanks, Phil. I'll talk to Skye and see what's going on."

"Yeah. Is Skye unfit for duty?"

"No," answers Andrew. "She is perfectly alright. At least, that is from the last time I've seen her. If you want, I could schedule an appointment with her, but then I'll have to cancel Lance and Morse's relationship counseling session."

"Gee. More of Lance Hunter's demon hell beast rant or Skye's simple but a bit estranged relationship with her husband? I think the answer is easy."

Andrew smiles. Of course, Coulson wants to make sure Skye is okay. "I'll send Lance to another therapist then. And I'll talk to Skye in the next few days or so. Good night, Phil."

"It's actually morning in Doha," he replies. Then he ends the call.

Andrew shakes his head and then rubs his eyes again. Well, it's midnight in New York City and he needs a very long night of sleep before he calls Lance.

* * *

 **Quick chapter. Yes, I'm done for today. But I'll be back tomorrow! And not as dead!**


	21. Recon

The next morning, Skye wakes up at the Parcens Tower. She looks around and then yawns. Then the events of the previous night comes back, stumbling into her mind. Grant. Romancing her with a lovely pot roast. Grant. Giving her a nice dress. And finally, Grant. Throwing a knife at her head.

Yes, he didn't exactly throw it right at her head. But it's still pretty close, and she can't help but feel slightly shocked. This is the very same Grant who was… a bit of a robot, yes. But he is a nice robot who certainly shows his softer side…

At least in the beginnings of their marriage.

"Why are you sleeping here?" says Morse, popping straight into her office. "Wow. You look really tired. Did you stay away all night? Here? On the floor?"

"Yeah," Skye answers, pushing the sleeping bag's cover off of her. She then stands up from the floor and hobble towards Morse, sniffing carefully. "Did you change perfumes?"

"Yeah. Should be strong enough to cover the puke from the quick detour I took last night," Morse admits, placing a few thick folders on Skye's desk. "What's going on with you?"

"My husband," she grits.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nope. At least, not right now." A pause. "Get everyone to Conference Room B by eight o'clock. I need to update everyone on the Ian Quinn case. I just had a major breakthrough."

"Okay. Can I get a hint?"

"It involves a Hydra assassin who has been living underneath my nose for the last six years," she replies, after a long moment of hesitation.

* * *

"I'm taking Leo Fitz towards a location where he'll be more useful," says Grant, which is totally and absolutely the truth. He pushes the wheelchair and nods to the security guards. He hates having to "check" Fitz out like a darn library book, but Hydra is very protective of their assets.

"You're clear," says the Hydra guard.

"Thank you," he replies, nodding. Then he walks to the front of the building and lifts seemingly unconscious Fitz into the passenger's seat of a rusty pickup truck. He taps on Fitz's shoulder and says, "Hang on. We're still not out of the woods. Not yet."

He closes the door to the truck and then casually places the wheel chair in the back of the truck. Then he climbs into the driver's seat and pulls out of the parking lot. Once they are about three miles away, Grant says, "You can talk, but try not to move too much."

"I hate Hydra."

"You were Shield. That is already enough reason for hate," agrees Grant, stepping on the brake at the red light. "And then they cut off your legs. Forced you into the wheelchair. Threatened you to hypnosis unless you build weapons for them. It's a lot to suffer through."

"Also, all the other prisoners think I'm your…"

"My what?"

"Never mind," replies Fitz. A pause. "Where are we going?"

"To a friend's house. He used to be part of Hydra, but after what happened to him in Calgary, he'll be lucky if he gets a job as a high school janitor," answers Grant. Then for the rest of the trip, he drives in silent. Neither of them have much to talk about.

* * *

"The Hydra assassin is Grant Johnson," says Skye, coldly pulling up a picture of her husband—she's thinking of putting an _ex_ in front of that word. "In Portland, he ruined my plans and brought a rocket launcher to kill Ian Quinn. Now, we know for sure that he has went to the FBI building in Seattle and finished the job by first strangling Quinn and then breaking his neck even though he was dead. The subject's home is—"

She stops once she realizes no one is taking notes.

"What?" She raises her eyebrow.

Holding her notepad up to her nose. Morse coughs a little. "Well, Skye. You are aware that Grant is your husband, right?"

"Yes," she answers with regret. "Yes, I'm aware that Grant is my husband. After the events of last night, when he threw a knife at my head, I have concluded that he is indeed the Hydra assassin who went after Quinn. I'm currently unaware of his location now, but we will apprehend this subject."

Sharing a look with Jemma Simmons, Morse offhandedly murmurs, "And I thought I have some serious relationship problems…"

Skye loudly clears her throat, ignoring the Asian woman coming in through the back door. "Back to the task at hand. We have a known Hydra agent. I have ran his fingerprints through the database of all known terrorists, prison records, etcetera. No dice. But we are going to find him, and we will get information out of him. If we can't do that, then we can most definitely eliminate him. Now, all the known information on Grant Ward has been sent to your inboxes. Get to work and dig up every piece of information."

Then the crowd begins to move, showcasing their efficiency.

"Grant Ward Johnson," says Simmons, shaking her head. "Find everything we can about this one guy. A Hydra agent, no less. Of course." Then she goes out of the door.

The petite Asian agent comes up to Skye and sternly asks, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," answers Skye.

"It's not every day that an assassin finds out her own husband is an assassin," points out Melinda May, crossing her arms over her chest. "But that's not the most important thing. Andrew wants to talk to you. A quick session today or tomorrow. He wants to check your—"

"I'm fine," Skye cuts in. "Now, that I know who the Hydra agent is, I will follow protocols and make sure he is taken down. Well, taken down after questioning."

"Fitz."

"Fitz," she repeats, nodding.

* * *

"Trip, this is Leo Fitz. Fitz, this is Trip," says Grant, pushing Fitz's wheelchair through the doorway. Then he shuts the door, glancing quickly up and down the streets.

No one.

Not a single Hydra or Shield agent in sight. Thankfully.

"Fitz," says Trip, tilting his head to the side. "Oh, Fitz! As in the brilliant—"

"Yeah," Fitz cuts in, his Scottish accent clear as the light of day. "So you used to be Hydra's assassin? Before whatever happened in Calgary."

Trip throws up his hands and glowers at Grant. "You mentioned Calgary to him?"

"What happened in Calgary?"

"You don't want to know," answers Trip, whistling slightly. "Just know that it was bad. Very bad. International bad, and it involved a CIA agent operating domestically, a FBI agent crossing the Canadian borders and illegally arresting someone, Joint Task Force 2, three assault teams from Hydra, and a mess that is so nasty that it took at least five million dollars to bride all the witnesses involved from speaking out to the general public."

Fitz stares at Trip in stark befuddlement. "I did not get any of that."

Trip smiles. "Just know that it was a huge mess."

"Alright." Grant shuts the door behind him. "But we are all up to date on the issue with my wife and the huge problem with Whitehall I'm having, right?"

"It's a bigger mess than Calgary," notes Trip. Then he reconsiders it, thanks to the glower from Grant. "Well, maybe, it has the _potential_ to be a bigger mess than Calgary. It's not there yet."

"Good. Let's not bring it there."

* * *

"I have never been to your house," remarks Simmons, stepping inside. She looks around, left and right. Then Morse and the rest of the Shield agents come in. Skye closes the door behind them all and clears her throat.

"Alright, everyone. You know the drill. The entire house is a crime scene. Find out every single bit of evidence you can find. Let's go!"

Agents in pantsuits begin to move.

"I feel kind of weird about this," admits Simmons, gawking at the large brown statue of a mermaid in the corner of the room. "Don't you feel weird about this?"

"What is there to feel weird about?"

"This is your house. Your house! The one you lived in for the last six years. And you are investigating your very husband," points out Simmons, gesturing around the space. "It's just… Don't you feel one bit off? Like something is wrong with the entire home, because Shield agents are now analyzing every single bit of genetic material found in the toilets?"

Skye swallows, but she doesn't say anything. "Just find the evidence."

* * *

"Shield protocols demands that the subject—which is you, Grant—to have a strict background check. They're going to dig up your entire history," explains Fitz, leaning over the breakfast table. He narrows his eyes at the blueprints of Grant's house. "The first place they'll start is with your house. They will take any weapons they find, and they will take every single bit of information they can gather. They might go after your workplace, too."

"Did you know Skye? She went by the codename Quake."

Fitz shakes his head. "Maybe in the passing, but I have not actually met her. You should know that Skye and I run in different circles. While I stay behind at safe houses and labs, Skye, as an assassin, would go out to the fields. Different locations. Different times. Travels a lot around the world, most likely. I don't think I know any of Skye's acquaintances."

"How about this name: Phil Coulson?" inquires Grant.

"The director of Shield?"

"Yeah."

"Never met him before," he answers, shaking his head. "But if Skye is one of his acquaintances, then you can assume that she's one of the top agents at Shield. Coulson doesn't usually talk to those…" Fitz snaps his finger and then sighs. "Look. Shield has several levels of clearance. I used to have a Level 5 clearance. I don't know much, and I have no access to the database of agents and officers. If Skye is an acquaintance of Coulson's, then she probably has at least a Level 6 clearance."

"Should you even be telling us this?" asks Trip, walking in with a couple of beers in his hands. He plops one down in front of Fitz and then offers one to Grant.

Grant shakes his head.

Fitz shrugs. "Please. There are higher leveled Shield agents that have spilled their guts to Hydra. It's as if any of my information is new."

"It's true," confirms Grant. He opens his secured phone and then pulls up all the files a Hydra IT has sent him. He then places his phone on the breakfast table. "Everything Hydra knows are in these files. And they do talk about clearance levels."

Trip shakes his head. "Years ago, Hydra didn't have this information. Back when I was working at it." He sighs and then starts drinking the beer.

"Things have changed a lot since you were gone," says Grant, pointing to the blueprints. "Now, I'm sure that Shield has already gone to my house. There is no way I'm letting any of the Hydra agents near there."

"You and your loner issues."

"Loner?" Grant scoffs. "Not loner. I just can't trust Hydra agents. Remember what happened in London? A huge nightmare. Not as bad as Calgary, but it's bad enough that the agents Whitehall sent to help me backstabbed me by attempting to hand over to the authorities. Bunch of selfish people with cowardly skin."

"That was…? Seven years ago?"

"Eight or nine. It's been a long time," he notes. "But the point is that you can't trust Hydra. The organization. Not completely."

"Impressive memory," murmurs Trip. "So no backup. What are you going to do?"

"Go back to the house. See what I might be able to find."

"But if there's a bomb waiting for you…" Trip lets that sentence hang.

"I'll bring someone along," says Grant, thinking immediately. He looks back and forth from Fitz and Trip. They both shake their heads.

"I," pauses Fitz, "am, for once, glad I have no legs."

Grant rolls his eyes. "I'll bring someone."

"Don't get him or her killed!"

* * *

 **Yeah! Another chapter done. And we are moving closer...**


	22. Invasion

Laughter.

"We have met in Egypt, in a peaceful tourist attraction turned violent. My friends didn't and probably still don't understand why I love you. But before I met you, I was in a dark place. No light, all shadows. Just darkness. And when I met you in Egypt and I saw the brightness in your eyes, you become my hope. When I look at you, it's like seeing the sun for the first time. You pulled me out of that darkness," says a too familiar voice, which sounds surprisingly heartfelt. "Skye, in sickness or in health, in bad skies or calm days, we will get through everything together. I love you."

She immediately steps to the television and unplugs it. With a deep frown, she glances at all of the agents present. Morse, Simmons, May, and a few others. She then asks, "What is going on?"

"We're learning about the subject."

Skye purses her lips and looks around the familiar space of her bedroom. She sternly grits, "This area is closed. We're done here." Once all of the agents move out, she goes to the DVD player, grabs the disc, and throws it into the trash.

She doubts that she and Grant will go through this.

* * *

He ends the call and steps into the dinner table.

Fitz sits on his wheelchair as usual, but this time, he is fastening on a very lifelike leg to his stump in his boxers. Grant averts his eyes and says, "Hydra's base is being moved. They have already set up the entire building as a trap in case Shield comes by."

"I don't think Whitehall is happy."

"Nope," he agrees. "I had to call my brother. It turns out that he was shipped to Afghanistan two hours ago. It would be a bit hard for him to suddenly disappear into the wind. Even harder to contact him."

"You managed to contact him."

"His pilot actually. Now Thomas is out of Whitehall's reach, and his jailers are out of the plane. Somewhere in Turkey, right now. But Whitehall has given me an ultimate. Kill the assassin who was took a few shots at me within forty-eight hours. Or else…" He mimics a gun going off at his head. "That sort of thing."

"Does Whitehall know that your brother…?"

"The pilot is a very trusted friend of mine," he replies, smiling a little. "Thomas should get out, Whitehall wouldn't know he's gone thanks to how hard communication is in Afghanistan for the next week or so, but the only problem is that—"

"Hydra wants your head."

"Yep."

"What are you going to do?"

He narrows his eyes and rubs his hands together. "How many half-Asian, half-white bodies are there at the morgue? They have to be female—"

Fitz lifts up his the stump of his leg and slowly puts on the other prosthetic leg. "I don't want to know what you're planning. Stealing a body from the morgue? You do realize that she shot at you?"

"You do realize that she is a Shield agent and you're supposed to be on her side?" He raises his eyebrow and watches as Fitz takes his first steps in a long time. In his boxers.

"Shield…" He snorts. "I have lost a lot of belief in that organization. They abandoned me to Hydra, and they gave up on searching for me. And let's face it. You're not really Hydra."

He quirks up his eyebrow, but he doesn't deny it.

He has never been Hydra. Hasn't been for a long time.

* * *

Skye walks as a few of the neighborhood kids walk up to her. Several girls. They ignore the ugly glare on her face and cheerfully asks, "Auntie Skye, what is going on?"

"Garden party," smoothly lies Skye. "Go home, girls."

They nod, satisfied with the answer. Then they go.

Skye narrows her eyes at the gaggle of pink figures, but she heads back into her house. Then Simmons run up next to Skye and pants out, "You have to see this. Proof."

Skye strolls, not running.

In this neighborhood, she doesn't run. At least, that is what the neighbors think.

She walks into the toolshed and finds a sublevel underneath it. Her mouth slightly parts in shock as she takes in the large amount of C4, T4, sniper rifles, machine guns, pistols, and a whole bunch of other stuff she can't name. She is already aware of some hidden weapons all around the house—like a few grenades in hollow books.

But this is…

"Overkill," says Skye, scanning the shelves for a rocket launcher. None, thankfully. But still worrying. To the agents behind her, she orders, "Bag it all up. Label it as evidence. Be careful with the explosives."

* * *

"Look, Whitehall wants you to kill Skye—"

"Someone matching Skye's description," corrects Grant, holding up a finger at Trip. "Someone matching Skye's description!"

Trip uncaringly pushes it away and continues on with his talk. "Whatever. But you are doomed. Because the bodies at the morgue are all old, dead, white people. Although, there are a few wrinkly skeletons that maybe could be passed off as a—"

"That's not helpful."

"But you could kill—"

"I'm not going to kill her," Grant interrupts firmly. He shakes his head. "I'm not going to kill her. But I will act if she attacks me."

Trip raises his eyebrow and then sits down at the breakfast table. "Look, Grant. I don't want you to die, and I don't want to see you die. If I have to choose between you and your wife, you can totally bet one-hundred percent that I'll save you. Your wife? I don't know why I should save her. I only met her once, and that was at your wedding."

Grant glances away, but he doesn't deny it. Trip hasn't met his wife since the wedding. And the wedding… It has been five years since then.

Like ancient history.

Gesturing with his hands, Trip speaks again. "Look, if you know what's good for you, then you should push away any feelings you have for her. This is an assassin. An assassin who is trying to kill you. Get your head in the game."

Then he stands up and leaves.

"Get my head in the game. Get my head in the game." For some luck, Grant repeats it again. "Get my head in the game."

* * *

"Okay. We need to learn about Grant Ward," she says, standing between rows of computers and monitors. She skips over _Johnson_ at the end of her husband's—husband should have an _ex_ in front of it—name. "The mark is a code blue liability to Shield, and we have to know his status. Everything. Credit cards, bank reports, and more."

Leaning towards Skye's ear, Simmons whispers, "Do you want to talk about this?"

Skye instantly brushes her off. She moves down a couple computers, and she begins giving more orders. Something familiar, that is. This—giving orders to IT—is something that she has control over. Something that she doesn't have to think much about.

"Audio scan civilian frequencies," she adds.

"With what?" inquires an IT.

Skye grabs her phone from her pocket and then dials up Grant's number. It goes straight to voicemail, very unsurprisingly. She puts it on speakerphone and lets everyone hear it.

The phone says, "Hi, you have reached Grant and Daisy Johnson. We are not at home right now, but you could leave a message after the—"

"Search through banks. Cayman Islands, Switzerland, search every country you can think of," orders Skye, placing her phone back into her pocket.

"For what?" remarks Simmons. "Is his name even Grant Johnson?" At Skye's nasty look, Simmons quickly backtracks. "I mean, Grant Ward."

Skye pales, realizing that she may not even know Grant's real name. She turns away from Simmons, fists her hands, and whispers, "Find him. Just find him."

"Umm… Skye." Morse raises her hand and then lowers her eyes to the tablet she holds. "I think he might have found us…"

As if on cue, alarms begin to blare.

* * *

 **Yep! Another chapter up. I'm slow these days, but it turns out that I'm drowning in personal problems and work. Seriously. That's what's happening. Sucks, yes. But I'm not dead yet. And neither is the fic.**


	23. Escape

Shoving his phone deep inside his pockets, Grant Ward hides himself in the somewhat claustrophobic vents, and he curses himself as he trips yet another laser beam. Why are there even lasers in the vents? But then again, why are the vents this huge? They shouldn't be man-sized, though it may be one of Shield's escape routes. He hears the alarms go off, and he begins to take a grenade from his pocket. He rolls it across the vent and then wait.

Bang!

The explosion rattles the entire vents. He quickly moves towards the hole the explosion created and then hopes that no one is hurt too badly.

* * *

Morse quickly types on the tablet. "I got a breach in the perimeter. It seems like one of the lasers in the ventilation shaft was tripped."

Skye's heart drops. Her words are faint as she whispers, "He's here."

Her phone suddenly rings, and she picks it up upon seeing the name on Caller ID. She remains frozen in place, though her voice remains surprisingly calm. "I thought I told you not to bother me at the office." She spins around, wondering where her husband is. Vents…

She glances upwards.

"You called me," he says, some trace amounts of hurt in his voice. "I'm sorry I missed your phone call, Skye. So I called back as soon as possible."

She tightens her grip on her phone.

"But let's get down to business." A pause. "First and last warning, Skye. You need to disappear. Right now."

She smiles a little. "I'm not going anywhere."

"We'll see about that."

Then Grant ends the call.

The next thing Skye hears is a strange clang coming from the vents. The explosion knocks her back, and she gasps at the huge amount of dust gathering on what used to be sleek floors. She quickly stands up and shouts, "Evac Plan B!"

Everyone quickly sprints into motion.

Skye quickly moves to the nearest computer and types a command she wishes she never has to use. The files begin deleting themselves, and she could hear an explosion. A small one from the oil drum. The paper trails… gone.

She smiles. Grant is not going to be able to get into Shield. He can try, but he won't make it two inches inside of the door. Agents begin blasting open the windows and firing a wire towards the building across the street. She heads to the window, following emergency procedures.

It all happens in a matter of seconds.

The agents soar across the empty air. If they let go, then splat. But they are too good, and they have been trained for these situations. Melinda May is the last to go, and she looks at Skye. "You better go," she says. Then she is gone, sailing at great heights.

Skye breaks open the window, and she turns around just in time to see Grant holding a gun at her head. She smiles at him and then pushes herself forwards.

* * *

Grant watches her go. He doesn't take a shot, even though he could have. And if he does, Hydra would stop looking for Thomas, for him, and for everyone else. He strangely lowers the gun and begins to move towards Skye. He reaches to the open windows and watches Skye stands at the roof of the building next to Parcens Tower.

He could grab the wire and slide all the way to the next building, but this tech… He can't trust it, and he's very sure of that. He sticks his head out of the window and yells, "Chicken!"

To his surprise, Skye hollers back.

"Pussy!"

It's a vulgar word that doesn't come out of Skye's mouth every day. He stares at her, thinking hard. He doesn't know what to think, but he could feel his heart pounding rapidly. And he could feel his stomach flip a bit, and it isn't from the heights.

Surprisingly, his lips quirk upwards.

She stares at him for a long moment, and even from this distance, he can't miss the slightest smile on her face. There is something about her…

And he watches her leave.

And if he dies in that moment, he dies happily.

* * *

"Let's see. Ward Architecture Firm," says Morse, typing rapidly on her tablet. She glances towards Skye, who stands at the front of the food truck. "They are surprisingly legal, if you don't look into what they do under the tables. They actually have several projects, and their website is surprisingly nice. For Hydra."

"How many construction projects?"

"Forty-seven," answers Simmons, swiveling in her chair. "Well, forty-seven in the North America. They have over fifty others around the world, but I thought we should narrow it down and see where the mark may head next."

"So how many projects are there in New York City?"

"Two."

"But…?" Skye glances to Morse, who types at a computer. She brushes away the strands in her face and repeats, "But what?"

"Grant Ward is scheduled to make an inspection of one of the construction sites tomorrow. The would-be Patterson Skyscraper," answers Morse. "That inspection hasn't been canceled. It could be a trap."

"Then we make it a trap for the mark," says Skye.

This, killing someone, is something Skye is familiar with.

Leaning towards Morse's monitor, Simmons comments, "It's fascinating. They actually do business. And from the bank accounts, they do have an expanding and growing business in real estate and construction and designing. If they were not Hydra, I have to say that I would hire them to build a house or something for Fitz and—" She immediately stops talking, her mouth open in shock.

Tearing her eyes away from Jemma Simmons, Skye clears her throat and continues talking. "Alright, we know what we are supposed to do here. We build a trap. One that the mark will go into without a doubt. And we have to make sure that we kill him. For sure."

Then a phone rings.

Skye pulls out her own phone and picks it up. It's Coulson, not the mark. Putting on a happy face, Skye greets, "Hello, DC. What's up?"

"How is the issue with you and your husband?"

"Oh. It's about to blow up," answers Skye.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nope," she replies, shaking her head. She lies, "I got to go, DC. I'll inform you when the Hydra assassin is dead. I have this covered."

"Well, I'm sure you do. But I'm sending May."

"What?" Her mouth opens. "But—"

"May is good at what she does," cuts in Coulson. "Besides, you can always use an extra set of hands after your office was burned."

"Right. Right." Skye ends the call and then tries not to forcibly crush her phone in her hand. Great. Now Coulson wants Melinda May to keep an eye on Skye. It's not good, and Skye pushes down all of the feelings she has until she only sees the objective at hand.

Kill Grant Ward.

* * *

 **Oh, yeah. Another chapter up! And I'm earlier today. (Then again, today is Sunday.) Another chapter would probably be up today... Probably... XD**


	24. Enemy

He tells every single detail about the invasion into Shield to Tripp and Fitz. Fitz continues tinkering with his prosthetic legs on the breakfast table, but he doesn't say very much about Grant or Skye. Trip, on the other hand, spills a wealth of opinions.

"Look. I told you before, and I will tell you again. She is not your wife," says Trip, shaking his head with emphasis. "You get a shot? You take it. And from your story, I know you had a shot. A very clear shot."

Grant throws his hands up, resisting the urge to put his foot on the breakfast table. Mama Trip will give him hell if he does. And that is nothing compared to Trip's eighty-seven year old grandmother. She will… Well, Grant doesn't have a name for it. But it involves his manly parts and his hair. He isn't quite sure what she plans to do with either of them, but she does have that murderous glint in her glassy eye. No wonder why Gramps stayed in line, bless his soul.

He points his finger at Grant. "I knew it! You totally had a shot, and you absolutely refused it. Grant, this woman is an assassin. She probably seduces people, and she spends more time in the field than you do. Most definitely more time in the field. Especially you as an officer of Hydra…"

"You have to point that out?"

"Hey. Look. Officers of Hydra? Common targets. High profile targets," reminds Trip, raising his hand upwards. "You were running that department before you got married to her. Okay. She could have known all about this even before you two met!"

Grant freezes, not daring himself to entertain that little possibility. But if it is true… He glances at Fitz, who silently shrugs. Not much information there. He glances back at Trip, who continues on with his pep talk.

"Get your head in the game and don't be fooled."

"Get my head back in the game," murmurs Grant. He clenches his fist, but he can't find the strength to maintain them.

"She is not your wife."

"She is not my wife," he repeats, very calm.

Trip continues, "Mourn for a weekend. Get back into the job. Go home." Then he reconsiders it. "On second thought, she might be waiting for you at home. So you better bring a shield. Someone to take the first bullet."

"Where am I going to find someone like that?"

Twirling a screwdriver, Fitz just notes, "Please don't get them killed."

"I'll try not," mumbles Grant. "No promises."

* * *

Skye looks at the blueprint of the building Hydra is planning to construct. Well, they have already constructed most of it. They only need to put in the walls, the appliances, and the bathrooms. She notes the elevators and says, "Let's put detonators in the elevators."

"Okay. What about the stairs?"

"I'll handle him if he goes that way," she replies. "We'll handle him."

* * *

"Aloha," casually says Grant, standing in Mike Peterson's door. He leans against the doorway and takes off his sunglasses.

* * *

"But detonators? We don't usually do explosives," notes Simmons. "Why not snipers at every door, angle, rooftop, and place—?"

Skye shakes her head. "I want him dead. Beyond recognition."

"Well, that is obviously a call for divorce," mutters Morse. But she continues typing on her computer and working on a possible stimulation for the entire situation. "Okay, I think there is the slightest chance that Grant"—Skye clears her throat, and Morse's eyes widens in understanding—"the mark, might actually get out of this. But slight chance. Smaller than strategically placed sniper rifles. Snipers are easily seen by a professional assassin like Gra—the mark."

"And sniper rifles have the chance of missing and hitting a civilian," points out Skye, folding her arms over her chest. Her leather jacket rustles slightly, but she ignores it. "Have we figured out the mark's codename? Or his file?"

"Nothing," answers Morse, after a long moment of hesitation. "Whoever he is, _who he truly is_ , is either buried so deep in the system that we can't find him or hidden too well in plain sight."

"I vote plain sight."

"Skye?" Simmons tilts her head to the food truck's door. "Skye, do you want to talk? Because even if you aren't willing to talk to me, you could always talk to May's husband. The therapist."

Skye purses her lips, but she only says, "Find him. Find his real identity." She is slightly impressed that Grant—the mark—has hidden so well from her. His files, his true identity.

No wonder why Coulson failed finding anything suspicions in the background check six years ago. There is nothing off about the mark until he is throwing a knife at her head.

* * *

"I can't believe I have never been inside of your house," notes Mike, with a touch of wonder. Adjusting his "Kiss the Cook!" apron, he turns to Grant and shakes his head. "After all this time."

"Well, let me give you a tour," says Grant, his hand on the hidden firearm in his hip holster. He forces his eyes open and leads Mike towards the nearest door—which leads to the living room. He shivers as he lets Mike gaze at the little trinkets on the fireplace and books on the shelves. The house seems darker than usual, less welcoming.

He looks underneath the couch, pretending to tie his shoe. Nothing. He scans through the shelves and carefully pulls out books at random. Still nothing. Then once he clears the living room, he leads Mike through the kitchen. Still nothing, and Mike makes small talk with him.

"How much does the oven cost?" he wonders, touching it. He squints through its window and says, "I have never seen this model before. It's from GE, right?" He then touches the insignia on the door, laughing awkwardly. "Oh, it is. But Mindy has been looking for something like this. But wider. Have you seen anything like that?"

Grant forces a chuckle. "Well, it's Skye who picked out the oven. I don't know where it came from. For all I know, it popped out of nowhere." As soon as he speaks the words, he narrows his eyes. He moves closer to the oven and squints at it. Well, it does look like an oven.

Suddenly, he realizes he has no idea how many features or upgrades Skye could have done to the house while he was out of town. The entire house is freaking warzone with mines in the bathtubs, yard, and chimney.

The pair move upstairs.

Then Mike lets out a yelp.

Grant instantly take out the gun and slowly turns his head towards Mike. He points it at the ground and seriously hope there isn't a nasty trap for him. Like a shotgun tied to the door, which is activated once the door opens. Boom! Head blown off.

"Water filters!" Mike turns towards Grant, who hides the gun behind his back. "You have water filters in your bathroom?"

A pause.

"Yes," answers Grant, letting out a purely relieved sigh. "Go ahead. Take a look under the sink, if you want to."

Once Mike is totally inside of the bathroom, Grant begins to move. He puts his gun back into his holster and looks underneath the bed. He looks at his shelves, and he looks behinds them. No bugs, no listening devices, no cameras. Nothing at all. He goes to the walk-in closet and digs through Skye's drawers. He pulls out a pink nightie.

With a grimace, he shoves it back into the dresser. Though not properly.

Then he goes back into the bedroom and finds something sparkling from the bottom of the trash can. He picks it up and frowns at the DVD. Unlabeled. But what is it? He plugs the television in, and he inserts the DVD into the player. Then he pushes the button.

It plays.

The wedding ceremony. The marriage…

Skye must have thrown it away.

He watches the first portion of the wedding ceremony, absolutely bewitched by the beginning of it all. He finds Gamsie in a frame, and he chokes down a tear. It has been too long since he has seen her. Then he finds Thomas, sitting right next to her. He stands up, turns away from the camera, and clucks like a chicken. He chuckles softly, and he can remember it clearly. Thomas acting like a chicken, he standing at the altar and awaiting Skye's arrival.

So happy. So much… bliss.

"So what is your secret?" asks Mike. He stares at the wedding ceremony playing on the TV. "Come on. You can tell me. We're neighbors."

Grant sighs, wordless.

"How do you stay in love… for so long?" Mike inquires. He shakes his head at the TV and says, "You know I was married. Once ago. Ace's mother, actually. In the beginning, it was so wonderful and bright and happy. It was as if I could handle anything. Face anything in the world and still live through it. We used to tell each other so much, but now… It's empty. I fight against her for custody of Ace in court, and she just… finds someone else."

"I don't know," Grant answers. "And I'm not sure if she is still in love with me."

"But you?"

"I don't know," he repeats.

* * *

 **Oh, yeah! Another chapter. I'm doing a little happy dance. And we are moving closer! So much closer to that scene... Ahh... Can't wait!**


	25. Session 5

"I don't want to be here," says Skye, crossing her leg over the other. "Look, Andrew. I get that Coulson has asked you to look over my mental health, but I don't need it right now. I'm hunting down the mark."

"The mark that is your husband," points out Andrew, sitting across from Skye. He raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying that you don't feel a single thing towards him? Not one bit?"

"No."

"Because most people wouldn't get married for no reason," Andrew speaks, immediately scratching out a few notes on Skye's file. "They get married for love."

"Well, he apparently got married to me to figure out any Shield secrets I have," she grits out. She points to herself and rants, "Look, Andrew. Maybe in the beginning, I thought Grant was wonderful and amazing and absolutely awesome. But now, I really want to kill him. Like kill him. Besides, he is Hydra. He is working for a terrorist organization."

"I see." Andrew pauses, debating with himself. Should he…?

"What is that look on your face?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't play dumb. I know that you know something I don't."

"Well," casually says Andrew, picking up Grant's file off the tiny table next to him. "Well, you should know this. The night Grant attacked you with a knife, he came to me."

"What?" She immediately sits back up and narrows her eyes. "You didn't tell me this? Back when I alerted the entire Shield that the mark is highly dangerous and is an unknown person that we know nothing about?"

Silently cursing himself for bad appointments, Andrew clears his throat. "I may have been listening to Lance Hunter's complaints about a demonic hell beast that was apparently accidently let out from Hades."

She clenches her fist. "I hate Lance."

"Look." He waves his hand. "Look. Grant came to me after you were attacked by a knife." A pause. "Was it a throwing knife?"

"A cutting knife."

"A cutting knife," he repeats. "He talked to me for a bit, and I would bet my degrees and achievements that he truly didn't know that you were Shield when he married you."

"So you are a human lie detector now?"

He sighs patiently. "He didn't know that I was a Shield psychologist."

"Oh, the irony. An insane Hydra assassin goes to a Shield psychologist for help in marriage counseling," quips Skye. With a bitter smile, she notes, "I won't be surprised if he joins Shield next."

Andrew sighs again. "Okay. But the key is that he went to me to clear the mess that is in his head, Skye. He didn't tell me the exact details of what happened in Portland, just the general idea. But he was shocked by your appearance in Portland. And he was—is—disturbed by it. Overwhelmed, most definitely. But the thing is Skye, he still cares about you and his marriage with you."

"Well, he can burn in hell," she says.

"Skye, he told me about you trying to kill him," he replies, after a long moment of hesitation. "He said that part of him wanted to kill you, too. But truly, he doesn't want to kill you."

"I'm not going to listen to the secondhand words of a crazy Nazi," she says, shaking her head with disgust. "Andrew, you may think that Grant is a decent man, but what kind of man overkills everyone? Brings a rocket launcher? Shoots me with a rocket launcher? Throws a knife at my head? Has a secret basement underneath his tool shed with fifty-seven grenades, fifteen stun guns, ten machine guns, and much more than I can ever remember. But I know that he can stock a small army if he wants to."

Then she stands up, grabs her purse, and then storms out of Andrew's office.

He sighs. But he definitely doesn't want to see Skye and Grant killing each other. Funnily enough, he doesn't quite believe that there is a crazy Nazi persona in the man he saw the other day. What he saw is a man, who is still in love and wants to believe.

* * *

"A demonic hellhound," rants Lance, thumping his foot against the ground. He chews on his fingernail, and he says, "A crazy she-banshee from hell. You know Bobbi and I were married a few years ago, right? It is like our problems, all of our old problems, are coming back."

Then the phone rings.

Andrew sighs with relief. Saved by the phone.

Smiling politely at Lance, he says, "Sorry, I have to get that." He goes over to his desk and picks up the phone. "Hello? Andrew Garner."

"Hey. How did that session with Skye go?"

"She stormed off before we could finish our session," he answers, pinching the flesh between his eyes. "I know that this request may sound selfish, but could you please recommend her to someone who is better qualified for marriage counseling? I can analyze the two of them alone and together, but someone who has more experience could might get—"

"Andrew, you're the best."

"In this field. But not marriage counseling." He turns slightly to Lance, who is looking through his phone and grumbling about some texts from Bobbi. "I already have my hands full with one couple. I don't need another couple. Especially where one side is a Hydra assassin and the other is a Shield assassin. It is bound to blow up. And not in a good way."

A pause.

Then Coulson says, "You do realize that we are trying to kill this Hydra assassin? Not actually give him relationship counseling?"

Andrew groans. "I know what Shield wants to do. But I'm against killing of people who we don't really know. Especially against people who never have their voices heard before by us. Like this Hydra assassin. Besides, you have been saying something about… assets."

Silence.

Then Coulson mutters, with a touch of disbelief, "You actually do believe that you can talk to a Hydra assassin, do you?"

Turning back towards Lance, Andrew replies, "I think I'm willing enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, you haven't seen this man before. Not in the way I have."

"Fine. I'll tell Skye that she doesn't have to kill him in the next… thirty-six hours or so?"

"You actually gave her a time limit to kill her husband?"

Another pause. "Yes."

"Goodbye, Coulson."

Then he ends the call.

Andrew shuts his eyes and then feels the slightest brush of a headache coming up. Sometimes, he really wishes that life doesn't become so complicated.

* * *

 **Whoo! Another chapter done. But this one is the last one for today. Tomorrow, there will be more. (Hopefully.) Once again, I ask you to leave your reviews and your praise (no flames, though) and your constructive criticism. I know I can use it.**


	26. Inspection

Grant Ward looks through the first floor's foundation, making marks on his checklist. He checks one of the many concrete block that holds the entire skyscraper up. He watches as a team of construction workers begin making reinforced concrete. Rebar—which looks like metal rods—give concrete additional strength to hold up the upper floors of the building. They bear great weight, and they can't fall or else…

Crack, crack. Topple. It'll be worse than a fall of Jenga.

Lives are at stake.

Of course, they must also be handled correctly. He writes on his clipboard and then moves into the elevator. He writes more notes on his clipboard and sighs when he sees the next thing he must inspect.

Steel frames. More foundation, especially for the top floors.

It isn't the first time he has done inspection, of course. But for a fifty-seven story building, it is a lot to take in. Good thing that there are other inspectors. Pausing in his notetaking, he glances up at the numbers clicking up.

37…

38…

39…

Then the elevator jolts. And it stops.

Grant turns his attention back onto the clipboard. He continues writing further notes and finally giving the construction team and the concrete a grade. Then he flips a page over and works on more calculations. He adjusts his yellow hard hat, and then he works on.

Then the speaker cracks to life.

"This is security. There seems to be a problem with your elevator, sir."

Multiplying simple numbers, Grant casually scratches his nose and then mutters under his breath. "It seems that I will have to start firing people. Improper handling and incorrect method of mixing powder. Oh, and the pH levels are off by half of a degree. Do people really know what they are doing around here? Or were they just trained by online school?"

"Excuse me?"

He finally glances up and finds a camera. With a grin, he waves at it. "Oh, hi. Sorry, I was distracted by my job. What is happening with the elevator?"

"There is a problem. Do you need an engineer to come up and see what the problem is?" asks the security guard, exasperation obvious in his voice.

"No rush," he replies, waving his pen at the camera. "Really, I'm quite comfortable."

A pause.

"Is that sarcasm, sir?"

Grant chuckles. But he doesn't reply. He turns his attention back to his papers and notes that he must fire the security guards. They are useless, too.

* * *

In the food truck, Skye watches as the mark casually continues working. Just oblivious towards any danger. She squints at the screen, seriously wondering whether or not he is trained in making constructing inspections.

"Is he… really doing the inspecting job?" asks Simmons.

"Well, if bank and school records are anything to go by…" A pause. Then Morse nods and answers, "Yes. He does actually do the job."

The mark itches the collar of his long-sleeved shirt and then adjusts his slacks. He doesn't seem to care about whether or not the elevator is moving.

Skye resists the urge to scream at him. His posture is horrible.

Raising her hand to the Shield agents present, she turns the microphone back on and asks, "Are you sure you're comfortable, Grant?"

Grant raises his head and grins at the camera. "So that is your huge secret? You are actually a guy? Is this my other big piece of news this week?"

Skye leans over towards the computer and types out a quick command. It should be her voice now. "No time for jokes, honey."

"Why don't you come out and face me—"

"What?" Skye pauses, narrowing her eyes at the computer screen. "Like a man? But you know girls. We would rather to play hard to get."

* * *

Grant pulls at the doors. No such luck. He picks up the clipboard from the floor and yawns a bit. He tilts his head back up at the camera and searches for the emergency hatch. Too high. He could jump, but it would make him look ridiculous in front of the camera.

"This is your first and last warning, Grant."

Grant gestures towards the shut doors and the steel walls. "Hey," he says, "you know that I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

"So you say. But right now, you're in a sealed box dangling over forty floors of empty air…" Skye lets her voice fades away and leans towards the camera to see his expression.

"Oh. So this is a trap?" He raises an eyebrow and looks around the elevator as if it is the most fascinating thing he has ever seen in the entire world. Eighth wonder, in fact.

Skye gives the monitor the slightest of all cunning smiles. She resists the urge to tease him a bit, because this game… It's like playing with a mouse.

"And I thought you were more than a pretty face," she notes briskly.

* * *

Grant glances up towards the ceiling. Emergency hatch is too high, but… It's not impossible if the elevator is moving. But that is highly dangerous. It's better not to take that chance at all.

"So what do you have up there? Shaped charges on the counterweight cable? Two more on the primary and secondary brake?" he says, raising his eyebrow. He drops the clipboard to the floor and begins to clap for the camera.

* * *

"He knows," points out Morse.

Skye smiles. She is slightly… impressed.

"Whatever your plan is…" Grant gives a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "It's not going to work. Because you keep on underestimating me."

"Do I?"

"You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Skye lowers her voice. "And you have no idea what _I'm_ capable of."

He tilts his head. "Okay. I give up. Blow it up." Grant then begins to unbuckle his belt, and he gives a very nasty grin at the camera.

"He is not going to urinate in the elevator, is he?" wonders Morse.

"I don't want to watch this," replies Melinda May. True to her words, she turns her attention on her keyboard instead of the screen.

Skye ignores the little comments. With the slightest tone of surprise, she says, "Excuse me?"

"Go on. Blow it. I dare you." He wraps his belt around his wrist.

Realization hits her. "You think I won't blow it."

"Come on, Skye. Blow it."

"Five… Four…" She is struck by the large grin on his face, as if he doesn't really care what happens to him. "You do realize I will do it?"

"What's the matter? All bark and no bite?"

"Three…"

"Skye, are you sure you want to do?" asks Simmons, leaning over towards Skye's monitor screen. "Because he is your—"

"Don't," she cuts off.

* * *

A familiar voice cuts in, "Skye, are you sure you want to do this? Because he is your—"

"Don't," replies Skye.

"Wait…" Grant blinks rapidly at the camera, his grin falling to pieces. "Wait a second…" Memories flicker by, and that voice… His mouth drops in surprise, and he says, "Skye, you have your maid of honor on your team of assassins?"

* * *

He manages to identify Simmons. That's not good.

"Oh, crap," whispers Simmons.

"Two…" says Skye, cutting in.

Grant taps his chin. "Hmm… Skye, your maid of honor was… I forgot her name, but…" He shuffles around the elevator and snaps his finger. "Jemma Simmons, right?"

"One," grits Skye. "Zero."

"Like Leo Fitz's Jemma Simmons, right?"

* * *

"Like Leo Fitz's Jemma Simmons, right?" he says, his tone softening. He could remember how rarely Fitz speaks of her, but he really does love her. Love her… more than friendship. Something different than how a brother would love her. Something that could have started if it isn't for Hydra's kidnapping.

Then his elevator jolts. And goes down.

* * *

"No!" shouts Simmons, grabbing at the black screen. With watery eyes, she moans, "No, no, no…"

Skye turns around for the culprit.

Bobbi Morse. With a guilty look on her face, she quickly says to Simmons, "I'm sorry, Simmons. I acted on Skye's word. When she said zero, I already keyed out the command. I couldn't override it."

With a frozen mind, Skye pushes her way out of the crowded food truck and pulls at her black apron. She watches as worker men shout in horror at the elevator's crash. A large cloud of dust sends a thin gray layer of everything nearby, and the world seems to be…

Standing still.

* * *

Grant Ward yanks the camera off the elevator, disconnecting it. He waits until the elevator moves up to the 57th floor and slowly walks out.

She has pressed the button.

He kicks at the ground and presses his fist against his mouth. He shakes his head and then continues making inspections.

He might have been harsher than necessary.

Today is a very bad day. A very bad inspection.

* * *

 **Yes! Another chapter done. As usual, I ask you all to leave your comments in the blank field below. Thank you!**

 **And yes! The story is moving much closer to that huge smackdown. I seriously can't wait for it. (No, I haven't written it yet, but... Whee!)**


	27. Dinner

Wearing the sexy black dress Grant gave her, Skye makes her way to her waiting table. She sits down in the chair and watches as the waiter pours champagne for her. It should feel like a celebration, but it just feels… so empty and cold.

Grant is dead.

But… shouldn't it be a good victory? She took down a Hydra assassin, and DC is sending her back on missions. There is not a single word about Andrew Garner.

"Closed another deal, did you?" says the waiter.

"Yes," she replies softly. "I did."

The waiter leaves her be, and she scans her surroundings. Children laugh and giggle, and families are sitting all around. There are some young couples here and there, kissing in the corner. The restaurant is a classy place, yes, but… reminiscing has its downfalls.

A tear climbs down her cheeks, and she wipes it away with her pinkie. She drinks down her glass and then reaches for more.

A man's rough hand takes the champagne before she does, and he pours her a nice glass. He then sets down the bottle on the table and runs his hands across her shoulders. "You wouldn't get so mushy about killing me now, would you?"

Skye turns her head. She sees him in a black tie and black suit. Shiny leather shoes. He smiles at her in a way he hasn't for a long time, and he is… handsome. Gorgeous.

"Admit it…" Grant moves around the table and sits across from her.

"How?" breathes Skye.

"Impressed?"

"Amazed…"

He raises up his eyebrow. "Amazed I'm still alive?"

Skye quickly regains her wits. "Amazed you had time to shave." She glances pointedly at his jaw and neck. Clean-shaven. The scruff he has gain in the last few days is totally gone, and he looks much better than ever.

"Well, I'm full of surprises."

"The suit is certainly one of them." In fact, Skye can't remember the last time he has worn a suit like that. Maybe their wedding, but… Damn, he wears it as if he wears it every day. She meets his sparkling eyes, and she tries to resist a smile.

She resists it successfully.

"Thanks," he replies. "I had to find a spare one somewhere."

The waiter comes by, bringing a plate for Grant. Skye quickly knocks her midnight-black shoulder bag off the table and takes out a small gun from it, aiming it at Grant's crotch.

And from the almost inaudible click, she knows Grant is armed too.

The waiter goes away, leaving the two alone.

"So…"

He echoes her. "So…"

Skye suggests, "Hands on the table?"

A beat.

Then they both nod. In unison, they place their hands on the table. She quickly eyes her utensils, making a mental note of them.

Grant pours champagne for himself.

"How did you know—?"

"Where you would be?" he finishes, raising an eyebrow. He sets down the bottle and glances around the restaurant in stark fondness. "Well, this is where we went on our first date. I figured you might be feeling a little… sentimental."

Skye clenches her teeth. "I came here for the food."

Grant tilts his head forward. "That's the new dress?"

She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. "What do you want, Grant?"

"We have to talk."

Skye raises an eyebrow. "About what?"

"Us."

She shakes her head. "There's no such thing as that."

Grant taps his finger on the table, leaning forward. He tilts his head to the side, reminding Skye of a puppy. "So there is nothing between us? Nothing at all, Skye?"

"Just the table," she replies.

* * *

He glances down and gives a small shake of his head. He doesn't know what to do. On one side of the argument, there is Trip encouraging him to walk away from Skye. On another side is himself. Just wanting for one more moment with her. And there is one voice that is louder than the other, and he doesn't really know which way to go.

The band picks up a tune, and he looks at Skye's brown eyes. Clearly, she is thinking the same thing and he speaks. "Are you dancing?"

"Are you asking?" she counters.

"Well, I'm asking."

"Well, I'm dancing."

He holds out his hand, and they begin to dance. Their muscles are tense, and Grant is partially worried that she would attack him in front of everyone. Like literally everyone—children, teenagers, parents, and grandparents. He runs his hands over her curves, and she glares at him.

Innocently, he says, "Just checking."

She spins him around and shoves him against the wall. She bends down, and Grant catches the eyes of a horrified elderly couple. Their beady eyes do not look away, and he could feel their judgement and their opinions by their very gaze. He flashes them a quick grin, as Skye removes the gun at his ankle. He pulls her back up and asks, "Satisfied?"

She breathes, "Not for years."

They pull into a waltz, and he moves with her, letting her lead. Getting a quick glimpse of a girl dressed as Anna from _Frozen_ , he inquires, "You think this story has a happy ending?"

"Happy endings are just stories that haven't finished yet," replies Skye.

He spins her around, taking the lead. He moves left, and the world blurs as they move. Somewhere in the distance, he knows that people are watching the two of them. But Skye and Grant are in their own world, somewhere where no one but them could touch. He lets her down in a dip and then gently pulls her up. His face is only inches away from her nose, and he asks, "Tell me. Was it hard lying to me for all those years?"

"You know how guys are," she whispers, leaning close to his ear. "There could be fifty betrayals in a happy marriage as long as they are all his."

"Why do you care if I was just a cover?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Who said you were just a cover?" he murmurs, tilting his head. He spins her around again, ignoring the admirers. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that they are good together.

"Well, was I?"

"Well, was _I_?"

Skye bites her lips. "You say it first."

"You say it first."

They immediately stop dancing, breaking apart just a few inches. Taking ahold of her gaze and attention, he says, "Okay. On the count of three. One, two, three."

Silence.

"You didn't say anything."

Skye replies, "Neither did you."

Then she pulls away.

And Grant feels as if he lost her all over again.

* * *

"Excuse me, where the bathroom?" inquires Skye.

The waiter points her in the right direction, and Skye moves towards there. She hears Grant saying how there aren't any exit points up there. He doesn't realize that she isn't looking for an exit.

In the bathroom, she sits on the cover of the toilet seat and waits. She doesn't know what exactly she is supposed to feel. That dance with Grant… It is like the beginning all over again, and she isn't quite sure what she is supposed to even think. This is the man who is a Hydra assassin, who has an unknown identity, and who is trying to kill her. But she can't forget about the way his hands linger on her hips, and she can't erase the way he brushes her.

It's unforgettable.

She goes out of the stall and finds an elderly lady washing her hands. Politely, she asks, "Hi. Can I borrow your lighter?"

* * *

The screaming starts way too soon.

Fire alarms begin to blare out, and Grant resists a smile. Fire… He can smell it in the air. The waiter begins to shout out something about staying calm and exiting in an orderly fashion. He tells everyone to leave all belongings behind. And in the middle of the crowd of people leaving the restaurant, he sees Skye giving him a brief glance back.

He quickly follows her out and sees her getting into a yellow taxi. He quickly sighs as he watches her go, and he lets himself have a second of peace.

"I think you're ticking," says a toddler next to him. She wiggles her finger at Grant, but he doesn't amuse her for a second. He instantly hears that same tick she is hearing and tears off his jacket. He spies a blue mail box on the corner and throws in his jacket.

He doesn't hear the ticks anymore, which is good. It's somewhere in his jacket. "Stand back," he yells, pushing away everyone nearby.

Two seconds later, the bomb blows.

And the night just gets even worse.

* * *

 **Oh, yeah! Another chapter done. I'm getting so much closer to that scene, and I'm figuratively itching. Also, I have a quick question to all of you. On a scale of one to ten, how good is my grammar? (Ten being the best, of course.) Same thing for prose. And characterization.**

 **I'm just getting a bunch of different things from my beta readers. Well, not for this work. They are giving me their opinions on _In the Starless Night_. Which is an original story written by me. **


	28. Showdown

He rushes to his car parked on the side of the street and jumps into the driver's seat. Dialing Skye on the car's phone, he angrily grips the car wheel as he recklessly tears across the lanes. He runs the red light, ignoring the flashes of the traffic cameras.

"Hello?" says Skye, after two rings.

"You could have killed a lot of people today."

"Oh, please. It was a little one," replies Skye. "It's only after you. No one else."

He cuts in front of a driver, who loudly honks at him. He ignores it completely and grits, "I want you to know something, Skye. I'm going home, and I'm going to start burning everything I have bought with you. Everything."

"Race you there."

Then she ends the call.

Grant steps on the accelerator, but he can't resist calling her again. She picks up a bit quicker now, and he starts speaking. "Skye."

"What do you want, Grant?"

"I…" His pulse slows, and his anger chills. He swallows before he continues talking. "I want you to tell me one last thing. Tell me"—his words become a whisper—"the first thing you thought when we first met. Because I'll tell you what I thought. I thought… that this is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life."

Her confusion is palpable. "Why are we talking about this?"

Grant pauses. Then he finds the answer he's looking for. "I guess, at the end, you start thinking about the beginning. I just thought you should know the truth." A pause. "So tell me. Truth."

And it is Skye's words that cut him across a place where it should never hurt. "I thought… I thought… I thought you that this is the most beautiful mark I have ever seen."

Grant's lips thin. But he steadies himself and nods. His voice is low when he speaks his next words. "So this is it. It is all business from now on."

Her voice cracks. "All business. From now on."

He hardens himself. "Thanks. That's all I need to know."

* * *

Skye reaches her home first. After six years, it will always be home for her. No matter how hard she tries to erase it from her memories, it will not loosen its hold on her soul. She goes to her oven and pulls out the heavier guns she rarely uses. She prefers something like snipers. Something that is far away and makes her a bit untouchable. She arms herself with magazines, clips, two Glock 19s from her armory. Then she takes ahold of the Heckler & Koch UMP-45 and Heckler & Koch FABARM FP6 from Grant's armory. She tests its weight and nods. It's good.

It's a bit ironic. Killing the man with his own weapons.

She begins prowling her home. Even with silencers, the guns will be loud. And if they are lucky, the neighbors won't call the police.

At least, not before the house burns down in flames.

* * *

He abandons his car on the driveway and runs into his tool shed. He doesn't always use the weapons within, but when necessary—like this instance—he will use it. He moves the carpets, jumps down into the basement, and finds his walls bare. Empty. Shelves, nothing.

Damn. Skye actually got here before he did.

He needs to find another weapon. And fast.

* * *

She sees a few shadows dancing outside. She peeks out of the window, seeing the black sedan partially in the driveway. Driver's seat is empty. Grant is somewhere, and she doesn't know where. She raises her gun higher and quietly stalks through the house. When she hears a noise coming from outside, she opens fire. For a second, she wishes that the gun isn't so loud. Even with the suppressors, it is screaming.

Then the gun catches.

Out.

* * *

He ducks down, and he swears that the cloud of bullets are only a few feet away from him. To his horror, he finds the roses—the ones he has cared for since he started living here—all assaulted by bullets. Clenching his fist, he grits his teeth and mutters, "Not my roses, Skye."

Then he opens the front door and slips inside of the house.

* * *

Skye hears a door open, and she concentrates. Coming from the front of the house. She slowly heads towards it and watches the lighting. The shadows. Listens for any sounds.

Quiet so far.

But he'll come out eventually.

And with a gun—scratch that, many guns—she'll be waiting for his head to fall.

* * *

He picks out a Glock 17 and a suppressor from the garage. It's hidden in the brand new Christmas lights box that no one ever bothers to put up. He moves around the house, wondering where Skye even is. He stays in one spot for a long moment.

He sees Skye moving in the hallways, and she begins to shoot at him.

He ducks out of the way, and he has his books to thank for it. Partially hidden by a thick bookshelf, he waits until she's out. Then he moves down the hall, away from her. The bullets start hitting where he was, and he casually walks towards the kitchen.

Time to figure out what types of guns Skye carries.

Two of his own.

And maybe something else. A good assassin is never without a few weapons up their sleeves. It takes one to know one.

She follows him into the kitchen, and he pulls open the fridge door. It takes the bullets, and he gives thanks to Skye for choosing a steel door instead of the sucky thing he was looking at a few years ago. Funny…

He ducks behind the island counter and yells out, "Damn it, Skye!" He reaches underneath the stove, takes out his pocket knife, and cuts through the gas lines. Reaching towards a drawer, he pulls out a matchbox. He quickly runs into the living room, getting out of the kitchen as soon as possible.

Gasoline. Dangerous.

Skye comes in, guns blazing.

And it blows.

He blinks and lets go of the matchbox. It turns out he doesn't need it. He sees Skye in a torn black dress with her—well, really, his—guns pointed at him. He rolls and hides behind his armchair. And to his shock, she shoots it up.

"Come on!" he hollers. "Not my chair!"

"I hate that thing!" she roars.

"Fine!" He lifts his gun and shoots her display of china plates and cups. They fall down and shatter as soon as they greet the ground.

"Oh, no, you don't!" In return, Skye arms her gun with more ammunition, turns her gun away from Grant's head, and points it towards his row of golf trophies.

"Hey! That's the country club's trophy! I'm supposed to return it!" Spying another thing Skye loves, he quickly runs out of his hiding spot and finds the fireplace. He takes a ticking clock off of it and waits until Skye catches up to him. He points the Glock 17 at its head and says, "You asked for it."

"Please… Don't…" says Skye, her voice low and deadly.

It has been in her family for the last one hundred and fifty years. It takes less than one second for Grant to pull the trigger and blow its face off. He quickly ducks behind the nearby couch as Skye unloads all of her bullets at the fireplace.

She grits. "You want to play rough? Let's play rough." She pulls the trigger, but the gun doesn't fire. It's out, thankfully.

He immediately takes the good opportunity. Grant quickly moves from his hiding spot, disappearing into the nearby doorway. He moves back towards the halls, and he steps in there. He hides behind the walls, and he slowly breathes. She doesn't know where he is.

But she is going to kill him when she does know.

It's quiet again.

With cat's feet, he tiptoes towards the opening of the fiery kitchen. He accidentally steps on broken glass, and he silently curses himself. He hits the floor.

And the walls blow themselves out, wood pieces falling to the floor. He brushes the dust away, and he huffs quietly as possible. He takes ahold of his gun and readies his hand around it. He waits… Carefully. Then he speaks.

"Your aim is as bad as your cooking, honey!" he shouts out, panting. He quietly stands up and moves away from his position.

"Any last words?" she calls out.

He breathes in and out and smiles. "The new hair is hideous!"

* * *

 **Ah! We made it to that scene. "The new hair is hideous." Right now, I'm still haven't decided which combo to use (Hellfire!Ward/Quake!Skye, Normal!Ward/Quake!Skye, or normal!couple). But I have to say that I will probably do... Okay. I don't know which one (or ones, assuming that I have enough time to write AUs of this AU). But most likely I'll continue with Normal!Ward and Quake!Skye to stay true with the Tumblr post.**


	29. Reconnection

**Alright. Sorry for the delay yesterday. I had to map out a lot of things, and I was buried under a lot of paperwork. So I'm back today!**

 **First of all, this is going to be Quake!Skye and normal!Ward. The alternative route will be posted as "Mr and Mrs Johnson: AE." AE stands for alternative ending. That will be Hellfire!Ward and Quake!Skye. Sorry for those who are looking for normal!couple. But I figured that the fanfic will follow pretty close to the movie's plot if I write normal!couple.**

 **So if you are looking for Hellfire!Ward and Quake!Skye, please stop here and don't read any further. The updates for the AE of this fanfic will be slower than this fic's updates.**

* * *

Skye pats down her person, her thin dress. Nothing. No more ammunition. Once again, she drops down another one of Grant's guns. Now, she can only rely on her Glock 19s. Not many rounds, however. 17. Each.

She grips one of her Glock 19s, and then she shoots out the green-colored wall in hot fury. Insulting her short hair… Why doesn't Grant realize that insulting a woman's features is never a good thing to do? Every woman will be pissed off. Enough to burn the world and everything in it. Her gun jams, and she curses him. She's out again. And she is down to her last gun.

Of course… she doesn't need to use her gun to fight.

Out of seemingly nowhere, Grant sends her sprawling to the ground. She instantly knocks the gun out of his hand with her feet, and he forces her to let go of her remaining Glock. It slides across the wood floors and into the living room.

Out of sight.

Jumping up, she punches him in the face and hisses, "Not my hair!"

"Too late!" he shouts back. He roughly shoves her against the wall, and in the distance, china shatters into worthless pieces. The shelves fall over, and Skye quickly mourns the loss of so many plates. All gone, broken.

Well, at least she has warranty.

She knocks her head against his, and then she dashes towards the living room. Another one of her guns is hiding in there. In the fireplace. If she can just get to it…

He grabs her feet, and she falls to the floor. With the casualness of a man drinking coffee on the sidewalk, he smiles down at her and remarks, "And now, you are on the—"

Whatever his sentence is, he doesn't finish it.

It's probably sexual in nature.

Thankful for the shortness of her minidress, Skye knocks him in the groin, and he falls to the floor. She stands up and kicks him in the thighs for a good measure. With a grin and cuts all over her arms, she quips, "Who is your daddy now?"

Then he sweeps her off of her feet with a well-aimed kick. She grabs whatever is nearby—a towel—and pushes herself up. She throws it around his neck, yanks Grant forward, and satisfyingly knee him in the stomach. She slaps him in the face for a good measure. That sound is pure music to her ears.

Then he shoves her across the coffee table. Magazines fall over to the ground, and for a quick second, she realizes that it is her fashion magazines that are on the floor. She clenches her fist and rolls.

She finds herself on the couch, but she recovers quickly. She jumps up and over the couch. Skye reaches into the fireplace and pulls out a shotgun. She blinks, realizing that Grant is in front of her. Grant with a Glock 19 in his hands. Pointing straight at her.

She holds the gun out, her finger poised on the trigger. She subtly adjusts her left hand underneath the shotgun's barrel. If he shoots, she could easily send it away from her.

It has been only seconds since she has last unleashed her power and it has been only seconds since she has pulled a trigger, but she will do it. Both of it. At least, that is what she thinks. But looking at Grant now…

She can never be sure about that.

* * *

Grant stares down at Skye, his breathing fast. His hands are on the gun, and his finger is right on the trigger. There is the memory of Trip telling him that she is not his wife. But looking at her shiny chocolate-colored eyes, he can't just deny that she is his wife. This is the same woman he married five years ago. This is the same woman he has dedicated himself to. And this is the same woman that has pulled him out of the darkness.

He knows what choice he'll make even before his body moves.

His mouth opens, and he shakes his head. "I can't. I can't do it."

Her jaw drops in surprise.

He puts the gun down. He slowly sets the gun on the partially broken coffee table and then straightens himself. With resignation of the fact that he may never truly know Skye yet he loves her anyway, he tells her, "Kill me. You'll be free if you do." A pause. "Do it. I know you could."

"Come on!" yells Skye.

"Do it," he repeats, his voice soft. "Skye."

Skye's brown eyes water, and her hands slowly lowers. Making a quick decision, he crosses the distance between the pair and pulls her face against his. She immediately respond, and he breathes quickly. He hasn't felt this in a long, long time. Too long.

And oh, he has missed Skye for _years_.

How has he forgotten about her in the first place?

He pulls off her dress, tearing away at the holes. They fall down to the couch, and there is nothing to kill or destroy here. There is just Skye, and she forces him to pull off his collared-shirt. He runs his hands through her too-short hair, and he just smiles as she leans down to kiss him again. He palms her back, running his hands over her hips.

She could use her hands to kill him right there, and he would die happy.

* * *

In the living room, she could hear a knock at the door. Moving out of Grant's arms, she quickly finds the nearest cover—the couch's blankets—and walks slowly to the door. She takes a peek through the hole and then opens it with a smile. "Hello? How may I help you, Mindy?" She nods at the police officer and quietly thinks of a good lie.

"Mrs. Johnson? We have reports of a loud commotion. Is there something going on?" asks the police officer, his hand on his hostler.

Skye chuckles, her cheeks heating up. "Well, we were watching a movie pretty loudly." She turns her head and shouts, "Honey!"

Grant silently paddles across the wood floors, and he peeks around the door with an awkward smile. His black tie is still on his neck, and he is dressed in white boxers. There are a few cuts here and there, but they aren't too bad. "Hey…" His eyes quickly narrow, and his muscles tense a little.

Skye turns back to the police officer and happily says, "It's okay. Everything is alright, Mindy." And as she says those words, she feels like everything is alright.

And she smiles.

* * *

They put on some clothes from the walk-in closet, and Grant could feel Skye's gaze as he cooks. Gripping his shoulders and resting her head on her back, Skye notes, "I should have been making you cook breakfast for the last six years."

"Five," he corrects with a chuckle.

"Five or six," she concedes.

He grins at her, and then he turns off the stove. Together, they eat an omelet out of the frying pan on the floors of the smoked kitchen. Skye pulls out orange juice, and they make some small talk.

"So where do you think we are going from here?" asks Grant, shoving yellow eggs into his mouth. He stares as Skye leans her head against the wall, and she shrugs.

"I don't know," she replies.

"Well, we are going to redo every single conversation we ever had," suggests Grant, trying to start from the very beginning. That day in Egypt. He could probably think of hundreds of truths he has never admitted to Skye. "So anything? Any lies in our background?"

"Tons." Skye snorts. "My parents are…" She shrugs, and then she answers, "Well, my mother is dead."

"I'm sorry."

Stuffing eggs into her mouth, she shrugs again. Then she swallows. "Well, I had a few months with her. It wasn't much, but… it was something."

Grant can tell that there's something bothering her, but he doesn't push it. Instead, he offers up another little detail about himself. "I actually have three siblings. Not one."

"Not just Thomas?"

"Nope," he answers truthfully. He can think of his brother and his sister. He hasn't thought of them in a very long time, and he marvels at the last time he has seen them. It's only Thomas he really cares about, and it's only Thomas who he has seen most recently—just two weeks ago. "You know my older sister as Congresswoman Ward and my older brother as Senator Ward. My sister is of Rhode Island. My brother is of Massachusetts. Thomas and I try not to see their faces in the news."

"Wait…" Skye snaps her fingers. "Senator Christian Ward?"

"Yep," he confirms.

"Wow," she mouths.

* * *

It's amazing. Senator Christian Ward is definitely a name thrown around Shield. Not very often, but more than Congresswoman Ward—whoever she is. But Senator Ward has an influence that can sway the Senate, which is definitely why DC is considering approaching him for some political power in Washington.

"You're related to him?" Skye shakes her head. "But there is no record…"

"Wiped clean," he says, nodding. "My parents and my other siblings like to pretend that Thomas and I have never existed. Oh, and Gamsie. Christian buried our files more than six feet deep, and he made sure that the press will never know our existence, much less what happened to Thomas and I. Hydra helped Thomas, Gamsie, and I build a whole new life. Another identity separate from the… Wards of New England." He huffs, a bit of resentment clear in his voice. "No one really remembers us anymore."

"Then how were you recruited by Hydra?"

But he doesn't answer. Instead, he shoves her away just as bullets rain over their heads.

* * *

 **Yep. Done. I'm not done for the day, however.**


	30. Minivan

Grant quickly checks his silver watch, and he curses himself. "They are right on time. Six o'clock, on the dot." He quickly crawls into the living room, Skye at his heels. "They gave me forty-eight hours to kill you."

"They're not Shield."

"Hydra," he whispers, though he isn't sure whether or not she has heard his words. They quickly make their way into the basement, and Skye closes the door behind them. He quickly goes to the toolbox underneath the table, opens it, and pulls out a revolver. It's a bit small, so he hands it to her.

She huffs. "Why do I get this little gun?"

He sighs. Then he takes it and gives her a bigger gun. Smith & Wesson Model 500. It has ridiculously huge calibers, but Skye should…

"What?" he says defensively.

"This gun?" She raises an eyebrow and gestures to the gun in her hand. "Smith and Wesson? You couldn't have gotten something a little more discreet?"

He rolls his eyes. "As if this is going to be discreet." He inserts a few bullets into the tiny gun and arms it. He tests its weight. Too many ounces too light, but he knows what he is doing. After all, he has been surviving for this many years. Fifteen, in fact.

"Good point." She tests it in her hand, and she nods. "Okay. What is the plan here?"

"Let's see. Hydra will be after my head," he says, glancing around at the basement. There isn't much, and he so wishes that has a jet pack in here. Unfortunately, that is for highly dangerous missions—not home use. "My boss is going to be attacking everything I have ever known and everyone I have ever met. He thinks I have gone rogue."

"That means he will attack me."

A pause. Then he nods. "Yeah. There is no way I'll be returning to them without some serious punishments." Recalling the blank stares of those who have underwent hypnosis by Whitehall, he shivers at that thought. "They might force me to comply."

Skye shakes her head. "I don't understand."

"Just know that I would rather die than go under hypnosis," he replies. Then he hears the basement door creak open. His heart pauses for a single second, and he sees a silver grenade falling in front of him. Skye kicks it, and it flies into the corner.

With a wince, Skye throws her hands forward. And the explosion doesn't affect them. It's like a wall. A wall of air that prevents the wave of fire from coming at them.

Grant's jaw drops. He has never seen anything like that.

Raising his eyebrow, he turns towards Skye and casually asks, "So when did this happen?"

"It's a long story," she replies. She runs towards the basement window, shoots it out, and suggests, "Boost me?"

Grant willingly kneels down and lets her step on his thigh. She slips outside, and he climbs out after her. They hide in the backyard, between a blueberry bush and the rose bushes. Grant points towards the driveway, and he mouths, we head there.

Skye shakes her head. She points towards the backyard and mimics something he doesn't even recognize. She groans at his confusion.

Grant shakes his head. "I don't understand that," he whispers.

She rolls her eyes.

Grant grits his teeth. "Come on. We're sitting ducks here!"

As if on cue, a huge boom sets the entire house on fire. It sways a little, hanging onto its wood foundation. Then the second floor just drops.

"Car," says Grant.

"The Peterson's," replies Skye.

* * *

They make their way towards Mike Peterson's house. Breaking in through the side door while wearing white tank tops and shorts, Skye can't help but feel like the most ridiculous thief who has ever lived. Barely wearing anything… And she is cold.

She steps inside the Peterson's messy garage and watches as Grant stomps his feet in frustration. She raises her eyebrow. "What's going on?"

"He had my barbeque set for the last six months," says Grant. He points to the red objects Skye barely remember. " _Six months_!"

"Priorities," she reminds him.

"Sorry. Six months." He opens the door of the minivan and finds the key hidden between the sun visor and the car's roof. "Wow. That is a ridiculous place to put the keys." He inserts the key into the engine just as Skye closes the door of the passenger's side.

The garage door opens behind them, the back window shatters from a sailing bullet, and Grant casually mows down a waiting assassin with a gun in his hands. Grant steps out of the car, runs to the back, kicks the assassin for a good measure, and comes back with a gun in his hands. He shakes his head and mutters, "They get younger every year."

"Or we get older," reminds Skye. She can't help but reminded of the rows of young agents shooting their first guns at the firearm range. They are all fresh-faced, innocent, and… None of them has blood on their hands. That is the difference between Skye and the rest of them. Of course, they are agents. They aren't as likely to get blood on their hands. It's only in the special ops—the black ops, especially—will their hands stain.

He drives over the dead assassin and says, "I'm not going to have a midlife crisis in this minivan, Skye." He then heads towards the main road and reaches the freeway easily.

Music plays in the background, and Skye sings along to the songs. After it's finished, she notes, "Remember that song? The DJ played it at our wedding."

"It's beautiful," replies Grant, shaking his head. "We danced to it."

Skye unbuckles her seatbelt and searches through the Peterson's minivan. There are toys all over the floor, and Skye finds dry-cleaned clothes in the very back of the car. Score. Moving back to the front of the car, she puts on a purple jacket and shivers a little. It's a bit cold, but it's better than a white tank top.

"That guy you ran over…" Skye tilts her head. "Is he Hydra?"

He shakes his head. "I don't recognize him. Maybe Whitehall is outsourcing?"

A pause. Then Skye dares to ask the question that has been on her mind for a long time. "What is Daniel Whitehall like? Rude? Mean? Nasty-tempered?"

Turning on the signal light and checking his blind spots, Grant snorts. "Nothing like that. He seems normal. Good-looking and attractive, at first. But when you spend a single minute with him, you know how off he is. He never gets angry. At least, he doesn't show that he is angry. But he does things very thorough. There is this one time when a Hydra officer turned to the CIA for protection. He went after everyone the guy cared about. His mother, his grandparents, his sister, his friends, the cashier who bags his mother's groceries…"

"Seriously?"

"He also went after the substitute teacher of the officer's kid. Seriously, Skye. This guy… You do not mess around with him."

"What's going to happen with you?"

Grant shakes his head. "I knew that there was a chance that Whitehall would come after me in the events that I fail to… tie up loose ends. My brother, Thomas, he works as a hacker in the IT department. One of my friends managed to pull him out in Afghanistan. My assistant is at a safe house, and you are with me. I don't know if I can protect anyone else… The people who we have met in the passing… I don't know."

"What about your family? The estranged family?"

"Whitehall knows my family history," he simply replies, his voice strangely confident. "He won't go after them."

Skye nods and checks the rear mirrors. She turns around and says, "Six o'clock. Three cars. Armored from the looks of them."

Tightening his grip on the wheel, Grant curses and cuts in front of another car. "Three guns. Hang tight. This is going to get rough."

* * *

 **I seriously apologize for not updating yesterday! I thought I had time, but instead there was a cat emergency. Don't worry. She's all better now. Thank you all for reading! As usual, I love your comments and your words. Give a quick sentence, and I'll feel better myself.**


	31. Battle

With the familiar weight of the gun in her hand, Skye moves to the back of the van and immediately begins shooting out the car. They bounce off, harmless to the mysterious assassins. She shouts, "They are bulletproof!"

"They are bulletproof," yells Grant, a second after her.

She rolls her eyes and then fires the Smith & Wesson again, taking a much careful aim. Just when she is about to shoot, the car swerves wildly. Hissing in annoyance, she blinks and hollers, "Grant! Damn it, hold steady! I can't aim correctly with your driving!"

"Transmission is horrible! How the hell does anybody drive these things?" he screams, turning the wheel once again. The car swerves again, and Grant honks loudly for a good measure.

Skye moves back to the driver's seat. She pats his thigh, screaming at him while assassins are shooting at them. "Grant! Switch places!"

Grant pauses.

Skye shouts out some more. "Seriously! I know how to drive these things! I drive one to work!" She then drops the Smith & Wesson in his hand. "This is your gun! You know how to use these things. "

After a quick moment that seems to last forever, Grant nods. Skye quickly moves on top of him, and she resists the urge to kiss him on the mouth. She steps on the gas pedal and takes control of the wheel. Grant goes to the back, and she could hear him shooting at the cars chasing them. The wind blows wildly, and Skye grits her teeth as she decreases her speed.

"Incoming! Your side!" shouts Grant.

"Hold on," yells Skye. Moving her hand to the sliding door's lock, she then slams on the brakes, and the van stops nearly immediately. The sliding door opens, and she could hear a shot fired by Grant. The unknown assailant slows down his car and then speeds up again. This time, he slams against the van, but not to her surprise, the door stays.

"Buckle up!" she hollers. She eyes the rear view window and slams the door against the black armored SUV with a furious twist of her wrist. Their doors begin to wrinkle yet the van has little damages. The doors hold still, and she smiles as Grant shouts a familiar _what in the world?_ comment. "Steel-reinforced side-impact intrusion-beams! Standard on all '99 minivans!"

"How did you know that?" shouts Grant, shooting again.

"Mindy Peterson!" she replies, accelerating the van and cutting in front of a driver. She ignores his vulgar curses about her bad driving and continues making good distance. She briefly checks the gas. A bit over half-full. Thank goodness for Mindy's habit of keeping a full tank in the van. "She was thinking of buying one for her child. You know, those dinner parties at the neighbors are really starting to pay off!"

Grant closes the door and begins shooting again.

* * *

Seriously. It's harder to shoot when there's a moving target. It's even harder to shoot when he has a very unstable position. The car keeps on moving in and out of traffic, and though Skye is much better at driving the van, the assassins are forcing them to never stay still. Grant grits his teeth, partially hiding his face behind the backseats of the van. He carefully shoots again.

This time, it hits the front wheel of the black sedan. It shakes, and then the car hits the highway block next to it. He grins a little. That is a good shot, he acknowledges.

Suddenly, another black sedan comes up on the left side of the van. Grant watches curiously as an assassin leans over and opens the sliding door.

"Incoming!" shouts Skye.

Grant quickly moves into action, and he opens the other side of the door. The assassin jumps in, and Grant shoves him out, forcing him to the mercy of other drivers. With a little smile, he screams back, "And outgoing!" He resists a laugh. "Wow, these doors are handy!"

He shuts the door and watches as two cars slam into the minivan at the same time. He holds tight to the hanger, trying not to let the forces push him in the wrong direction. He says, "Skye!"

"I got it!" she yells back. The van slows down and then shoots forward.

Grant hangs tightly as the car shakes back and forth. He wishes that he is in the driver's seat, but no. Unfortunately, not. The car loses the assassins, and he tries to aim at the driver's head again. "I got them!"

Suddenly, the car swerves wildly, and Grant nearly lets go of his grip. Amazingly, Skye fires two times—one for each car. The car explodes, and Skye turns back.

Grant drops his jaw. That is…

Legendary.

He has never seen anything quite like it. Briefly, he wonders exactly how Shield train their assassins. Because if he ever gets a chance to see their training, he definitely won't miss it. There must be a lot of firepower used to train Skye. Or maybe not.

With shaking limbs and an iron stomach, he slowly climbs into the passenger seat and just remarks, "Wow." A pause. "We were good back there."

"What did you expect?" inquires Skye.

"I almost always work alone," he finally answers, taking a swift glance at her.

"No kidding."

A pause.

Then Grant takes a step forward. A very careful, considerate, figurative step forward. "The way we worked together. It was…"

"Pretty good?" finishes Skye. "What's your point?"

"Hydra is after both of us," points out Grant, glancing out of the window. He fiddles with the gun, already dismantling it and mantling it again. It's a nervous habit, but it's one that will always stay with him—or so it seems. "And you know, there is strength in numbers."

More silence.

Then he continues, "You know, teamwork. Together. We could just… try it."

To his relief, Skye only says, "For now."

"Right," he quickly replies, nodding with relief. "See where it goes."

"Right. See where it goes."

* * *

 **I'm sorry that I didn't update on Friday or Saturday. There were some hella good sales for boots (!), and I couldn't miss them. High heeled boots. Made of faux leather. Some Clarks, some of the usual. Also looked at some coats from Calvin Klein. Very nice peacoats. I prefer the black ones.**

 **Also, the AE won't be updated for a little while. But hopefully I'll get to it very soon.**


	32. Information

Together, the pair wait at a diner. It is interesting, which is the nicest and most polite word Skye can come up. If someone has told her that she'll be drinking coffee, joining forces, and eating breakfast with a Hydra assassin, she'll shoot them in the gut or clout their heads. No preference in the order.

She plays with the empty coffee cup. "Are you sure that he can be trusted?"

Dark brown eyes flickering left and right, he shrugs. "I don't know. But I hope that he does care about our friendship. At least, that must account for something." For a moment, Skye wonders if Grant is very sure of himself. He doesn't.

Skye sighs and shifts to make her posture much more comfortable. It's a bit hard to play with a clay coffee mug while holding an armed gun underneath the table. She's pointing it away from Grant, towards the front door.

"So how many?"

She instantly knows what he's talking about. "Grant, please." She rolls her eyes and points the gun towards the white petite girl with a baseball cap passing by their table. Nothing happens, thankfully.

"I just want to know—"

"We're on the run from countless assassins. Is it really time to talk about this?" fiercely whispers Skye, leaning towards Grant and shaking her head.

"Just give me a number. Then I'll keep my mouth shut," he promises, twirling his thumbs. Then a pause. "How about I go first? I'll give you a number."

She sighs. "Fine. Go."

Grant clears his throat. "I don't exactly keep count. But if I try, I think I'm going to be around fifty or sixties. I have been around for over a decade. More active in my earlier days. Not as active right now."

"Three hundred and twelve," she answers.

His eyes widen, and Grant's jaw drops—almost comically. "Three hundred and twelve?" he splutters. He raises his hand to his forehead. "That is practically a ball park. Three hundred and twelve?"

"Does it bother you?"

"How did you get it that high?" He shakes his head. Under his breath, he repeats, " _Three hundred and twelve_."

"Some were two at a time," explains Skye, watching a family of laughing people coming through the front door. The breakfast diner is decent, yes, but she doesn't know where the next threat may be coming from. It doesn't help that Grant is very casual here. Or at least, he looks casual.

"Are you counting innocent bystanders?"

Skye flinches. Reinforcing the grip on her gun, she grits her teeth and whispers, "I work for _Shield_. Shield."

And it's an answer of its own.

Glancing away, Grant nods. "Sorry."

Then Skye sees a tall black man coming into the diner. There is a telltale budge in his left pocket of his pants, and Skye quickly stiffens. Grant notes her action, and he calmly—too calm, in fact—takes a drink from his black coffee and mutters something about pecan pie. The man runs his eyes over the entire diner and finds the back of Grant's head of messy hair. Then he sees Skye.

"That's him?" whispers Skye, turning the gun underneath the table towards the mysterious friend Grant keeps on talking about.

Grant takes a brief glance. "Yes. That's him." He stands up, steals a chair from another table, and seats himself partially between Skye and the friend.

The friend pauses. Then he walks towards their table and sits down in Grant's old seat. Running his eyes over Skye, he casually notes, "I thought you killed her."

"It's never my intention," replies Grant, his words echoing with sternness. He glares at the familiar man, glowering with annoyance.

And Skye resists a smile. She so knew it.

After taking a quick sip from his cup, Grant tilts his head at his friend. "Skye, this is Antoine Triplett. He is an old friend of mine. You might remember him as my best man. At our wedding."

"The Trip who keeps on having romance trouble?" Skye raises her eyebrow, and she is unable to stop herself from chuckling at some of those stories. Trip tilts her head at her, and smiling, she explains, "Grant told me one of the stories about a Hawaiian girl, her father, and a loose rooster. It's pretty hilarious."

"And tame compared to the other things he has done," adds Grant, cracking a small grin. Then his expression smooths out, and he turns a strong eye against Trip. "So there are a bunch of Hydra operatives after me. Please don't tell me that you joined them."

With that sentence, Skye makes sure that the gun is pointing at the place where it will most definitely hurt. It'll be hard to forget when one has been shot in one's manhood.

Trip shakes his head, rolling his eyes. "You know me. After that stint in Calgary, I'll be lucky if Whitehall doesn't cut off my head and spit on my grandmother's grave." He keeps his voice low and casually looks over the chef's specials for breakfast. "But he did offer a million for your head, Grant. To everyone in the community. A quarter of a million for anyone, who is or even was a friend of yours. Which, by the way, includes me."

"Oh." Grant stares at his cup. "Is Hydra—?"

"You know Bakshi?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Who is Bakshi?" inquires Skye, shaking her head.

"The guy who is after Grant's job," replies Trip, leaning back in the booth. Wisely, he leaves his hands on the table. "Basically, he took over Grant's job. Yesterday, in fact. Anything Grant or you have ever touched is about to be burned to the ground. Whitehall is not going to stop until he kills everyone. And I mean, everyone. Even if you two are dead…" Trip mimics an explosion with his hands.

"So what do we do?"

Trip scoffs. "The only way to stop Whitehall is…" Then Trip shrugs and glances at Grant. "How would you convince Whitehall from burning everything you have ever known?"

Grant pauses. Then clearly knowing the answer for quite some time, he answers, "Leverage… or the death of Whitehall and his loyal operatives." A pause as he glances at Skye. "The end of Hydra itself."

Skye straightens a bit, keeping her gun pointed at Trip's legs. She looks back and forth from Grant and Trip. "End Hydra?"

Trip shakes his head. "It's much harder than it seems. Hydra has branches all over the world, and they maintain a presence in every country. Most notably Canada, Japan, Chad, Madagascar, and Iceland, but no one really knows that"—he gives a glower to Grant, making it clear that someone does know that—"Hydra has gotten pretty deep in their organizations and governments and land. It's going to be difficult to take down an entire organization."

"How about just Whitehall and his loyal operatives?" suggests Skye, raising an eyebrow. She honestly can't resist taking down a few more Nazis. Then she suddenly realizes what Grant and Trip is. Was. It doesn't matter, but she makes a note to ask him about it later.

"Easier. But still hard," acknowledges Grant. "Leverage is probably the easiest."

"Then what do we have?"

Grant looks at her. "The Gravitonium."

Skye blinks rapidly. "The Gravitonium? Of all things?" A pause, as Skye tilts her head with curiosity. "Do you actually have it?" she whispers.

"No," he replies. "But I have some suspicions of where it is."

* * *

 **As usual, I'm sorry for not updating as quick as I used to be. I'm probably going to be slowing down until Christmas (assuming I don't finish this fic by that time). The alternative ending still hasn't been written (yes, I know. I need to finish it), but I'll try to get it done.**


	33. Background

**Sorry! It has been too long since I have updated. First of all, I got so overwhelmed by personal problems, schoolwork, work, studying, and more studying. And then I heard that [big spoiler coming up here, so you might want to avoid the entire paragraph and skip to the chapter and read it] Grant Ward has been killed off in the midseason finale of AoS. And that has severely pissed me off. Because I really like Grant Ward as a character. Also, Brett Dalton's looks totally help. (Yum. Eye candy.) Well, at least, Brett Dalton is still on. But I'm seriously considering to quit the show and not bothering to watch the rest of the season.**

* * *

The three regroup at Trip's mother's house. Grant notes Skye following them at a distance, her eyes glancing around rapidly and always scanning for threats. He can't blame her. This house is very unfamiliar territory for her. The door bursts open in front of Trip, and Trip's grandmother—a frail yet angry black woman in a thick pink bathrobe and bunny slippers—shouts, "Antoine! You didn't warn us that there'll be more guests! And how dare you let that poor girl wear _that thing_ in the cold?"

"Grandma," Trip says, a little bit pleading. "They were—"

"No excuses!" she snaps back, making Trip stand up a little straighter. Then she turns towards Skye and orders, "Come on. Let's get you out of the cold."

They all hurry in while Trip makes painful facial expressions—each one more comically hilarious than the previous one. He mouths to Grant, I'm so sorry.

Grant shakes his head. Dropping his voice to a low whisper, he asks, "When did she get back from the doctor's office?"

Then there's a surprising whack at his head. He flinches, and he turns to see Trip's grandmother with a newspaper roll in her hand. She places her fists on her hips and loudly says, "It's rude to talk about people behind someone's back, Grant!"

Grant shrinks a little bit. "Sorry, Grandma." A pause. "So when did you get back from the doctor's office? Did the checkup go well?"

She nods approvingly. "Better. Much better. The cancer is still in remission." She swivels around to Skye and inquires, "Now. How you feeling? Do you want the heater to be turned on? I can't believe"—she gives Trip the nastiest glower Grant has ever seen in a long time—"that Antoine didn't give you his jacket to you."

"Grandma. She isn't my girlfriend." Trip points out, "She is Grant's wife."

Grandma slaps Trip's forearm. "Doesn't matter! A lady is lady, no matter who she is married to! Give her your jacket, young man!"

"But—"

"No stalling!" she hollers. Behind her, Trip takes off his brown leather jacket and slips it over Skye's shoulder with ease. Trip's grandmother eyes Grant with awful calculation. "Grant. You need a jacket too. Antoine! Get your best friend here the parka!"

"Grand—"

"No stalling!" she repeats, her mouth stern and her eyes fierce. Trip quickly runs upstairs, and relaxing immediately, Grandma Trip calmly asks, "So, what is your name, dear?"

"Skye," answers Grant's wife, tightening the jacket around her. "I'm very sorry—"

"Nonsense!" booms Trip's grandmother. "We take in the strays and those who are running away from the wrong kinds of people. Come on in. Say hello to everyone. There is already another guest here, Skye. I'm sure you'll get along swell with him." Grandma Trip, surprisingly fast for an old woman of ninety, makes her way into the kitchen.

Grant follows Skye and Trip's grandmother in. At the kitchen table is Fitz, working on his prosthetic leg and putting some greasy tools on the table. Trip's grandmother probably doesn't care about that oil spot on the polished marble table, because she hardly give a glance at it. She grins at Skye and says, "The other guest, Mrs. Johnson. Leo Fitz. He is another refugee like you and Grant."

"Leo Fitz." A pause. "Like Jemma Simmons' Fitz?"

Fitz drops his toolbar, his mouth already moving. He places his hands on his armchair, as if trying to stand up. "You have heard of her? Have you seen her? Is she alright? Is she okay? How is she—?"

"She is alright. Still looking for you," answers Skye, slowly breathing out a breath. "Everyone thought you were dead. We found pieces of your legs in the explosion."

Fitz flinches, just slightly. Looking down at the leg, he nods. "Hydra cut off my legs and then spread pieces of me all over Manhattan. I've been with them for years now. But how is Jemma doing? Did she get a new partner?"

"She is working on my team," replies Skye, clearly holding information back.

Clearing his throat and attracting everyone's eyes, Grant suddenly feels the urge to intervene. He shivers at the sudden draft of coldness coming through the open window. "It's okay, Skye. Fitz already knows about Hydra, Shield, the problems I'm having with Whitehall, and all of that stuff. There is barely anything he doesn't know."

"Oh." A pause. "Shield has presumed you dead. They put your name on the Wall of Valor, but Simmons never gave up on you. She made me ask every Hydra agent and operative we have come across about you. Wondering if you are okay. Wondering if you are… alive."

Fitz suddenly turns to Grant. "How likely is for Whitehall to come after me if I go back to Shield?"

After a brief moment of calculation, Grant answers, "Depends. If he doesn't know about you, you'll be completely safe. But if he does… Then it depends on how long you have been hiding, what Whitehall is planning to do, whether or not you have a network of contingency and escape plans, whether or not you have been trained, and how well your prosthetic legs work."

Silence.

Then Fitz says, "So how long?"

"Anywhere from a surprise attack of a few seconds to years," replies Grant, shrugging. He shakes his head. "With Whitehall, it's impossible to know. You know how he is. Chessmaster. Mad scientist. Silver fox."

Trip, thankfully, takes that moment to run down the stairs. He shoves a World War II jacket with American insignias into Grant's hands. He pointedly glares at him. "Don't lose it. That's my grandpa's jacket."

Skye's brown eyes widen at it. "Wait… That's the Howling Commandos!"

Trip and his grandmother straightened. Trip's grandmother chuckles and adds, "My husband, God bless his soul, fought against the Axis." Then she manages a stink eye at Trip. "And somehow, my own grandson happens to end up working for Hydra."

"Grandma!" A pause. Then Trip shrinks back and softly adds, "But it was only for a year. Less than that even. And I was only in my twenties! I'm a freelancer now."

Waving a wrinkled hand at Trip, she sighs. "The young ones. Always following blind, aren't they? Well, wisdom only comes with age." She gives him a long analytical stare. "Or so one hopes."

* * *

Sitting at the breakfast table, Skye glances around and wonders if she has ever thought she will be working along with a former Shield prisoner and two rogue Hydra operatives. If she comes upon a similar scene a few years ago, she would have taken out the Hydra agents—whether or not they were rogue—and rescue the Shield prisoner. Instead, they are working together to find a crazy weapon that Ian Quinn has hidden somewhere.

"Ian Quinn," says Grant, shaking his head in frustration. He clasps his hands at the back of his head and winces. "I know he funds Hydra, but I don't know much about him. I met him once or twice. Sleazy guy. Likes to show off his wealth."

"I met him more than twice," says Trip, sitting across from Skye. They ignore the sound of whirling coming from the unattached prosthetic leg on the table. "Smug. Smug bastard. At least, he has a list of known houses. And I got some more information from your brother, Thomas. Apparently, Quinn does have a few locations and properties that are a bit… suspicious."

"Speaking of Thomas, how is he?"

"Bored. And sleepy. He spent the last two hours hunting down every single piece of financial trail on Quinn. Can't blame him. My own taxes bore me to death," says Trip, showing the phone to Grant. Grant then passes it to Skye.

She checks out the address, laser-focusing on the cities.

 **WASHINGTON D.C. (USA)**

 **INGLEWOOD, CALIFORNIA (USA)**

 **JHANG (PAKISTAN)**

 **SINGAPORE (SINGAPORE)**

 **SAINT PETERSBURG (RUSSIA)**

 **MOSCOW (RUSSIA)**

She notes, "That is a lot of places to look." She then asks Trip, "Can I make a call and send a list to some of my agents?"

Fitz stops working, perhaps waiting for Trip's answer. He fiddles with a screwdriver, looking back and forth between Skye and Trip. As if expecting them to be paranoid.

After a moment, Trip nods. "Make the call."

* * *

 **Wow. It has been a long day.**


	34. Final Notes: Incomplete

I would like to apologize for anyone who has been following this story. I find myself unable to finish this story ever since what happened to Grant Ward at the end of Season 3. I was okay with him being Hive, but I'm not okay. . .

With whatever happened in that season. I can't even talk about it. If anyone would like to finish this story, PM me and I'll send you the entire doc of this. I'll be labeling this as "Complete" but in the descriptions, it will say abandoned.

Thank you.


End file.
